OLD   SAWS  AND 
MODERN    INSTANCES 


OLD  SAWS  AND 
MODERN  INSTANCES 


BY 

W.   L.   COURTNEY,  M.A.,  LL.D. 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  LITERARY  MAN'S  BIBLE,"   "ROSEMARY'S  LETTER  BOOK," 

/'IN  SEARCH  OF   EGERIA,"  "  UNDINE,  A  DREAM  PLAY,"   ETC. 


NEW   YORK 
E.   P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN    GREAT    BRITAIN    BY 

RICHARD  CLAY  &  SONS,   LIMITED, 

BRUNSWICK  ST.,  STAMFORD  ST.,  S.E.  1, 

AND  BUNGAY,  SUFFOLK. 


PREFACE 

A  SELF-SUFFICIENT  book  requires  no  Preface,  still  less 
does  it  need  an  apology.  It  is  my  misfortune  that  this 
book  seems  to  require  both. 

First,  an  apology.  I  am  quite  aware  that  I  have  altered 
a  well-known  phrase  in  using  it  as  my  title;  and  that  it 
should  be  "  wise  "  saws  and  not  "  old  "  saws  that  are 
conjoined  with  "  modern  instances."  But  while  I  have 
few  pretentions  to  wisdom,  I  can  at  least  advance  some 
claims  to  age ;  and  many  of  the  themes  with  which  I  deal 
are  sufficiently  old  to  justify  their  right  to  a  familiar 
antiquity. 

There  is,  I  fear,  much  repetition  in  these  pages,  and 
there  is  certainly  some  lack  of  connection  and  unity.  My 
main  desire,  however,  has  been  to  illustrate  modern  ques- 
tions by  ancient  examples — especially  in  the  region  of 
drama.  Thus  I  have  made  a  study  of  Brieux  in  close 
connection  with  a  study  of  Euripides,  and  have  contrasted 
and  compared  Mr.  Hardy's  Dynasts  with  the  great  plays 
of  ^Eschylus.  An  inquiry  into  the  conditions  and  limita- 
tions of  Dramatic  Realism  is  perhaps  the  most  substantive 
of  my  aims  in  this  book,  which  also  includes  some  purely 
historical  essays. 

W.  L.  C. 

London, 

August  1918. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE      ........  v 

MR.  THOMAS  HARDY  AND  ^SCHYLUS— I  ...  1 

„  II  ...  17 

ARISTOPHANES,  THE  PACIFIST — I  ...  .31 

II 45 

DEMOSTHENES  AND  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  PATRIOTISM  .  60 
PATRIOTISM  AND  ORATORY  :  VENIZELOS  AND  DEMOSTHENES  73 

SAPPHO  AND  ASPASIA .89 

A  PHILOSOPHIC  EMPEROR      ......     109 

THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY — I     ......     122 

„  „!!....  .  140 

REALISTIC  DRAMA — I 161 

II.  .      180 

„          III  ...  .     201 

EUGENE  BRIEUX,  MORALIST  .         .         .         .         .         .218 

"  OUR  EURIPIDES,  THE  HUMAN  "   .         .         .         .         .     236 

SIR  HERBERT  TREE  AND  THE  ENGLISH  STAGE  .  .251 
INDEX  265 


vii 


OLD    SAWS   AND    MODERN 
INSTANCES 

MR.  THOMAS  HARDY  AND  ^SCHYLUS 


THE  conjunction  of  names  is  not  arbitrary  or  paradoxical. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  ^Eschylus  in  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy — 
a  certain  ruggedness,  austerity,  elevation,  a  definite 
philosophical  scheme  at  the  back  of  all  his  creations  and 
a  gift  of  high-sounding  rhetoric  and  occasional  poetry. 
As  a  poet,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Hardy  is  manifestly  inferior  to 
.^Eschylus,  who  wrote  some  lines  of  unforgettable  beauty 
as  well  as  strength.  He  is  also  inferior  as  a  dramatic 
artist,  for  JEschylus's  Oresteian  trilogy  and  his  Prometheus 
Vinctus  are  among  the  greatest  achievements  of  drama, 
only  to  be  compared  with  the  biggest  work  of  Shakespeare. 
But  Mr.  Hardy  has  his  own  qualities  of  distinction  and 
power ;  and  if  he  only  writes  poetry  with  a  conscious  effort, 
as  though  in  answer  to  Nature's  stern  imperative  "  Thou 
shalt  not  be  a  poet "  he  had  boldly  and  laboriously 
answered  "  I  will,"  he  has  achieved  in  The  Dynasts  a 
grandiose  exploit  which  is  destined  to  live.  For  he  has 
taken  the  whole  period  of  the  Napoleonic  Wars  and  tried 
to  show  how  much  greater  and  more  successfully  borne 
was  the  labour  of  England  in  defeating  the  enemy  than 
most  chroniclers  have  been  disposed  to  allow;  and  in 
the  execution  of  his  task  he  has  shown  us  animated  pictures 
of  Courts  and  camps,  of  seascapes  and  landscapes,  of 
capital  cities  and  country  villages,  together  with  portraits 
of  generals  and  common  soldiers,  kings  and  peasants — 
constituting,  as  it  seems  to  me,  a  veritable  epic  of  a  pro- 
digious war,  rich  in  artistic  colour  and  imaginative  skill, 
which  nevertheless  with  a  certain  perversity  he  has  chosen 


5?..  i^LD(.SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

to  present  in  a  so-called  dramatic  form.  Actable  drama, 
of  course,  it  is  not.  It  is  too  cumbrous,  too  voluminous, 
too  diffuse.  Its  three  parts,  nineteen  acts  and  one  hundred 
and  thirty  scenes,  are  not  constructed  as  a  drama  with  a 
single  interest  and  a  central  unity.  It  is,  as  Mr.  Hardy 
himself  says,  a  play  "  intended  for  mental  performance 
and  not  for  the  stage."  And  yet  we  cannot  but  remember 
that  when  Mr.  Granville  Barker  produced  selected  scenes 
from  it  at  the  Kingsway  Theatre,  with  Mr.  Henry  Ainley 
as  a  kind  of  Master  of  Ceremonies  and  official  interpreter, 
The  Dynasts  created  an  atmosphere  of  its  own  and  produced 
a  dramatic  effect,  which  none  of  those  who  were  present 
are  likely  to  forget.  It  is  a  great  piece  of  work,  and  even 
its  "  disjecta  membra  "  bear  the  stamp  of  a  great  and 
creative  mind. 


§1 

What,  however,  I  desire  to  examine  is  not  the  poetic  or 
dramatic  excellence  of  either  J^schylus  or  Mr.  Thomas 
Hardy.  It  is  their  poetic  mission,  their  message  to  the 
world.  For  a  poet  is  not  a  mere  collector  of  mighty- 
mouthed  harmonies,  nor  an  seolian  harp  through  which  the 
winds  of  Heaven  whistle  as  they  list.  He  is  a  bard,  a  seer, 
a  prophet,  who  tells  us  something  of  an  unseen  world  to 
which  his  imagination  enables  him  to  ascend  and  bring 
down  tidings  to  us  dwellers  in  the  prosaic  plains.  The 
same  thing  is,  of  course,  true  of  a  dramatist;  indeed,  in 
some  senses  it  is  more  true.  In  all  drama,  it  is  said,  there 
is  divinity — sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  little  be- 
clouded and  disguised  when  we  have  to  deal  with  mediocre 
times,  but  always  visible — like  lightning  flashes  across  a 
black  sky — in  the  great  artists.  For  consider  a  little. 
The  task  of  a  dramatist  is  exactly  antithetical  to  that  of 
the  priest.  The  latter' s  business  is  to  reconcile  men  to 
God.  God,  Goodness,  Justice,  Mercy  are  taken  for  granted, 
and  we  must  square  our  conceptions  with  these  primordial 
axioms.  But  a  dramatist,  with  his  human  interest  and 
preoccupations,  starts  from  the  other  end,  the  man's  side. 
He  does  not  take  anything  for  granted — except  the  great 
broad  facts  of  human  nature.  Hence,  observing  how  men 
are  hampered  and  controlled  and  frustrated  by  their  own 
passions,  or  by  what  we  call  Destiny,  he  sees  it  as  his  great 
business  to  justify  God  to  men.  He  must  show  what  are 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   ^SCHYLUS        3 

the  limiting  conditions  of  human  activity,  how  men  are 
helped  or  hindered  by  the  laws  of  Nature.  He  must 
interpret  the  scheme  of  world-governance  to  the  purblind 
sons  of  men. 

Some  dramatists  are  more  conscious  of  this  mission  : 
some  are  almost  unconscious  of  it.  Nevertheless,  it  remains 
in  the  background  of  all  their  work,  as  something  we,  at 
all  events,  can  appreciate  as  constituting  their  rank  and 
value  in  world-history.  Scarcely  any  dramatist  of  the  first 
rank  has  been  a  less  conscious  moralist  and  preacher  than 
Shakespeare.  And  yet  how  much  we  learn  from  Shake- 
speare's calm  outlook  over  the  world,  his  dispassionate 
judgment  of  men  and  women,  his  clear  recognition  that  we 
weave  our  own  fates,  and  that  for  us  Destiny  is  human 
character  !  If  he  makes  his  pessimist  say 

"  As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods. 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport," 

he  gives  to  a  more  manly  character  the  utterance  : 

"  The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  lies  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves  that  we  are  underlings." 

Goethe  was  a  more  self-conscious  artist  than  Shakespeare, 
especially  in  his  Faust.  Both  ^schylus  and  Thomas 
Hardy  are  very  anxious  to  explain  to  us  their  view  of  the 
way  the  world  is  governed.  And  sometimes  a  dramatist 
will  insist  on  inculcating  a  patent  and  obvious  moral  — 
witness  Brieux  in  Les  Avaries  and  Les  Trois  Filles  de 
M.  Dupont  and  G.  B.  Shaw  in  such  pieces  as  Widowers' 
Houses  and  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession.  But  to  be  didactic 
in  this  urgent  and  palpable  form  is  to  miss  something  of 
the  artist's  serenity  and  to  injure  the  dramatic  effect  by  a 
constant  uplifting  of  the  schoolmaster's  forefinger.  We 
go  to  the  drama  to  listen  and  think  and  be  silent  :  we  do 
not  cherish  the  prospect  of  being  soundly  birched. 


§2 

^Eschylus  and  Thomas  Hardy  are,  as  I  have  said, 
conscious  artists  :  they  feel  themselves  under  a  real 
necessity  of  accounting  for  the  phantasmagoria  of  existence 
in  accordance  with  principles  appealing  to  intelligence. 
Such  a  general  statement  may  require  some  qualification 
when  we  come  to  deal  with  our  contemporary  poet,  but 


4     OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

with  the  Greek  poet  it  is  abundantly  justified.  No  doubt 
there  was  something  in  the  condition  of  the  time  which 
seemed  to  necessitate  a  reconstruction  of  man's  attitude 
to  the  Divine — something  which  necessarily  laid  upon  the 
shoulders  of  thoughtful  men  the  burden  of  explanation. 
Views  about  the  God  or  gods  were  changing,  and  had  to 
be  readjusted  to  known  facts.  Human  daily  experience 
and  rationalised  experience,  which  is  science,  alike  threw 
doubts  on  current  theology  and  mythology.  A  novel 
interpretation  was  urgently  required  to  save  the  old  faith, 
or,  if  that  was  impossible,  to  provide  bases  for  a  new  faith. 
In  JSschylus's  time  the  Olympian  gods  were  coming  or 
had  come  into  their  own,  and  were  replacing  the  old  bar- 
baric deities — mainly  earth-deities — worshipped  with  all 
manner  of  superstitions  by  the  earlier  inhabitants  of  the 
land.  For,  of  course,  Zeus  and  Athena,  Apollo  and  Ares 
and  Hephaestus,  Artemis  and  Aphrodite,  and  the  rest  were 
not  aboriginal,  but  were  introduced  into  Greece  as  the 
bright  creations  of  an  artistic  race  which  had  got  beyond 
the  stupid  worship  of  stocks  and  stones.  Once  established 
they  had  to  justify  themselves,  or  rather  be  justified  by 
such  artists  in  marble  as  Pheidias  and  such  artists  in  verse 
as  the  Attic  dramatists.  Zeus  had,  it  is  true,  overthrown 
Kronos,  but  he  still  had  to  show  that  he  deserved  to  rule. 
It  was  at  this  point  that  ^Eschylus  took  up  his  burden  of 
interpretation,  being  a  deeply  religious  man,  versed  in  the 
Mysteries,  as  well  as  acquainted  with  the  teaching  of 
Pythagoras.1  Sophocles,  his  successor,  was  more  con- 
cerned with  man — idealised  man.  Euripides  frankly  gave 
up  the  whole  business  and  did  not  conceal  his  scorn  for  the 
Gods,  until  late  in  life  he  acknowledged  the  might  of  the 
newer  deity,  Dionysus,  in  that  strange  play  The  Bacchce. 
But  ^Eschylus,  as  we  shall  see,  was  full  of  his  arduous 
mission,  working  with  an  uncertain  hand  in  the  Prometheus 
Vinctus,  but  with  assured  mastery  in  the  Agamemnon  and 
the  Eumenides.  He  was  a  God-intoxicated  poet. 

Mr.  Hardy's  problem  is  that  which  weighs  upon  us  all 
in  a  modern  world — to  reconcile  what  Science  tells  us 
about  the  Cosmos  writh  the  revelations  of  Christianity. 
How  in  a  system  of  things  governed  by  the  unalterable 
relation  of  Cause  to  Effect,  antecedent  to  consequent, 
can  we  find  room  for  a  Divine  Providence  ?  In  a  material- 

1  ^Eschylus  non  poeta  solum,  sed  etiam  Pythagoreus :  sic  enim 
accepimus. — Cic.,  Tusc.  //.,  10,  23. 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   .ESCHYLUS        5 

istic  universe  is  there  any  place  for  a  God,  especially  a  God 
who  is  at  once  omniscient  and  omnipotent,  infinitely  just 
and  infinitely  benevolent?  It  is  especially  in  times  of 
some  great  calamity,  the  ruin  caused  by  an  earthquake 
or  a  pestilence,  or  the  world-wide  sorrow  of  a  vast  war, 
that  we  begin  to  question  the  Divine  government  and  ask 
ourselves  how  the  wholesale  destruction  of  youthful  life — 
the  very  promise  of  the  future — can  be  accounted  for  or 
harmonised  with  the  notion  of  an  all-powerful  God  who 
wills  the  welfare  of  mankind.  Mr.  Hardy,  as  we  know, 
has  been  obsessed  both  in  his  novels  and  his  long  dramatic 
poem  The  Dynasts  with  that  great  European  convulsion, 
the  Napoleonic  Wars.  Indeed,  Wessex  and  the  Napoleonic 
campaign  would  be  a  brief  summary  of  his  main  interest, 
his  chief  preoccupation  in  his  work.  If,  therefore,  he  is  at 
pains  to  explain  for  us  in  piece  after  piece  the  conclusions 
he  has  arrived  at,  his  philosophic  estimate  of  ultimate 
problems  is  as  pertinent  and  as  important  in  reference  to 
the  present  tremendous  conflict  as  it  is  to  that  which  was 
waged  by  our  forefathers  a  century  ago.  And  what  is  his 
solution  of  the  problem  ?  It  is  a  melancholy  confession 
of  Nescience  and  Agnosticism.  Like  .ZEschylus,  he  will 
replace  an  old  conception  of  Godhead  by  a  new  one.  The 
God  we  have  to  recognise,  however,  is  not  a  Person,  reason- 
able, kindly,  paternal,  but  an  Immanent  Will,  an  abstract 
energy  which  works  blindly,  mechanically,  automatically, 
without  intelligence,  moving  men  on  its  gigantic  chessboard 
as  mere  pawns  and  puppets  in  a  game  which  it  does  not 
understand  but  which  it  pursues  unceasingly.  Events 
happen  not  because  they  have  been  fore-ordained,  but 
purely  arbitrarily.  Men  act  not  self-impelled,  or  because 
they  will  to  act.  They  dance  like  figures  on  a  string  to  a 
tune  set  them  by  a  blind  Power. 

Such  in  general  outline  is  the  position  taken  up  by  the 
two  poets — the  one  a  scientific  agnostic  of  the  modern 
type,  the  other  a  philosophic  advocate  of  the  gods.  Both, 
confronted  by  similar  problems,  accept  it  as  their  problem 
to  justify  the  ways  of  the  God  or  gods  to  men,  the  earlier 
writer  by  attempting  to  reform  the  current  conceptions 
of  the  Godhead,  the  other  by  frankly  denying  intelligence, 
pity,  providence  to  that  blind  but  extremely  active  force 
which  he  calls  the  Immanent  Will.  If  J^schylus  gives 
consolation  to  his  listeners  troubled  with  the  enigma  of 
Evil  and  suffering  in  a  God-ordained  world,  Mr.  Thomas 


6    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Hardy  cuts  the  Gordian  knot  by  denying  that  the  world 
is  God-ordained.  The  first  is  occupied  primarily  with  an 
ethical  question;  the  second  with  a  scientific  question. 
What,  asks  Mr.  Hardy,  is  the  ultimate  fact  about  the 
world  ?  and  he  answers  that  in  final  analysis  it  is  resolved 
into  Force,  Energy,  Will.  But  ^Eschylus's  question  is 
different.  Is  the  world,  as  we  know  it,  constructed  and 
ordered  on  lines  which  appeal  to  human  reason  ?  Yes,  he 
answers.  Zeus  or  the  Godhead  cares  for  Justice,  Goodness, 
and  Truth.  He  punishes  wrong-doing  even  to  the  third 
generation.  Ruin,  destruction,  death  are  due  to  men's 
sins — to  their  pride,  their  audacity,  their  arrogant  insolence. 

§3 

In  JSschylus's  time  the  Olympian  gods  had,  as  we  have 
said,  come  into  their  own.  It  must  not  be  imagined  that 
they  were  primitive  deities,  for  Greece  originally  worshipped 
much  ruder  and  barbarous  powers,  archaic  objects  of 
reverence  like  sacred  stones  or  trees  or  certain  animals. 
When  the  Achaeans  came  down  from  the  north  they 
brought  their  gods  with  them  and  established  them  on 
Mount  Olympus  in  Thessaly.  Zeus,  primarily  an  air-god, 
and  the  rest  of  his  company  were  never  said  to  have 
created  the  world  :  no,  like  the  men  whose  highest  aspira- 
tion they  represented,  they  were  conquerors,  they  took 
possession  of  the  land  and  made  the  original  inhabitants 
captives.  Behind  the  bright  figures  of  the  Olympians  there 
is  always  a  dark  background  of  something  crude  and 
immature  and  savage,  which  they  had  overthrown.  The 
Gods  fought  the  Titans.  Zeus  gained  his  ascendancy  by 
killing  Kronos,  just  as  a  still  more  primitive  deity,  Uranus, 
had  been  put  out  of  the  way  by  his  successor.  In  this 
fashion  was  pictured  the  change  which  had  come  over  the 
land  when  brute  powers,  together  with  bloody  rites  of 
sacrifice,  were  replaced  by  intelligent,  rational  agencies, 
made  after  the  fashion  of  men,  it  is  true,  but  of  idealised 
men.  To  some  extent  the  Hellenic  Pantheon  was  a 
literary  creation,  which  we  attribute  to  the  times  of 
Peisistratus  and  to  the  conscious  literary  work  of  Homer 
and  Hesiod.  But  it  was  equally  a  creation  of  sculpture 
and  plastic  art,  Pheidias  and  his  associates  carving  in 
magnificent  outlines  the  objects  which  the  Greeks  were 
bidden  to  worship.  Mythology,  based  on  local  legends, 


THOMAS  HARDY  AND   JESCHYLUS        7 

formed  the  divine  annals  of  Heaven  and  its  rulers.  If 
ever  a  theology  was  palpably  constructed  by  men  and  bore 
obvious  traces  of  its  human  workmanship,  it  was  the 
Olympian.  It  was  framed  to  make  the  world  intelligible, 
to  improve  moral  conceptions,  and  to  serve  as  the  recognised 
creed  of  the  Greek  state  or  polis.  But  being  an  artificial 
structure  it  eventually  perished — because  it  was  "  human, 
too  human."  It  died  of  its  very  humaneness.1 

^Eschylus,  like  the  dramatists  who  succeeded  him, 
ransacked  the  myths  for  the  subjects  of  his  plays,  but  being 
a  man  of  lofty  and  pious  mind  he  usually  tried  to  lift  the 
s:ories  to  his  own  high  level.  Inevitably,  however,  he 
found  the  details  of  the  myths  clashing  with  his  own  moral 
and  religious  conceptions,  and  hence  it  became  his  task  to 
rationalise,  not  so  much  the  fables  themselves,  as  the 
deductions  which  men  were  in  the  habit  of  drawing  from 
them.  His  was  essentially  a  lyrical  gift,  and  the  choruses 
of  his  plays,  in  which  he  gave  his  lyrical  capacity  full  play, 
became  sometimes,  not  the  comments  of  a  sympathetic 
observer,  but  philosophical  essays  touched  with  emotion. 
Whether  he  was  a  Pythagorean  or  not,  he  was  assuredly 
something  of  a  mystic — which  lends  colour  to  the  assertion 
that  he  was  accused  of  revealing  some  of  the  secrets  of  the 
mysteries.  But  if  we  are  tempted  to  look  upon  him  as  a 
speculative  thinker,  let  us  remember  that  he  was  also  a 
soldier.  He  and  his  brother  fought  for  Hellas  in  her 
struggle  with  the  Persian  power,  and  when  men  wrote  his 
epitaph  in  Sicily,  where  he  died,  they  said  not  a  word 
about  his  dramas  or  his  poetry  :  they  recorded  the  glorious 
fact  that  he  took  up  arms  against  his  country's  foes.  And 
probably  Aristophanes' s  intense  admiration  for  him  was 
largely  due  to  the  fact  that  he  belonged  to  the  noble  troop 
of  MaQa6a)vojud%cu. 

When  a  thoughtful  man  of  this  calibre  deals  with 
religious  faiths  he  is  little  likely  to  leave  them  where  he 
found  them.  Throughout  all  his  plays  we  find  constant 
evidence  that  the  poetic  as  well  as  the  philosophic  imagina- 
tion is  at  work  in  dealing  with  Olympian  theology;  but 
for  our  purpose  in  our  desire  to  discover  what  he  thought 
about  the  principal  God  or  Zeus,  two  dramas  are  of  especial 
importance,  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  and  the  Agamemnon. 
Just  as  the  main  interest  in  Isaiah's  prophecies  is  the  view 
he  held  about  Jahveh,  so,  too,  in  a  dramatist  who  has 
1  See  Prof.  Gilbert  Murray's  Four  Stages  of  Greek  Religion,  c.  ii. 


8     OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

some  of  the  qualities  of  Isaiah,  the  main  interest  is  the 
portraiture  and  conception  of  Zeus. 

M.V.; 

The  Prometheus  is  as  broad  in  its  conception  and  as 
pregnant  in  its  lessons  as  the  Hebraic  "  Book  of  Job."  It 
must  be  remembered  that  the  play  which  we  possess  is 
one  of  a  probable  trilogy ;  it  deals  with  the  Titan  enchained. 
The  two  other  members  of  the  trilogy  were  called  Tht 
Fire-bearer  (IIvocpoQos),  and  Prometheus  Unbound  (^v6^svo<;\ 
Probably  the  "  fire-bearer  "  was  concerned  with  the  thef: 
of  fire  from  Heaven,  and  came  first.  Then  followed  the 
play  which  has  been  preserved,  the  Prometheus  Vinctus 
(deofji(hrri<;\  and  to  that  succeeded  in  its  turn  the  play  of 
release  and  reconciliation.1  Viewing  the  trilogy  in  its 
completeness,  we  see  that  it  is,  like  Job,  a  drama  of 
human  relations  to  the  divine.  Man's  free  will  as  against 
God's  omnipotence;  man's  revolt  against  the  arbitrariness 
of  the  Divine  Rule;  man's  justification  on  the  score  of 
equity  and  reasonableness  as  against  such  a  theory  of 
dependence  as  is  involved  in  the  doctrine  of  the  potter 
and  his  clay — such  are  some  of  the  points  involved. 
Prometheus,  the  blameless  benefactor  of  the  human  race 
(to  whom  he  gave  the  inestimable  boon  of  fire),  victimised 
and  persecuted  by  the  Olympian  ruler,  bears  a  colourable 
resemblance  to  Job,  a  just  and  innocent  man,  plagued  and 
tormented  by  the  arbitrary  will  of  Heaven  in  order  that  his 
rectitude  might  be  proved  to  be  disinterested.  In  the  long 
run  both  Job  and  Prometheus  receive  compensation  and 
are  restored  to  their  dignities,  but  only  after  a  wearisome 
period  of  physical  torture  and  mental  and  moral  suffering. 
Or  are  we  altogether  wrong  in  such  an  analogy,  and  did 
JSschylus  mean  to  represent  in  his  hero  an  arrogant 
arch-rebel  instead  of  a  suffering  saint  ?  Is  he  a  martyr  or 
Milton's  Satan? 

Let  us  look  at  the  data  before  us  in  order  to  answer 
this  question.  We  will  assume  that  the  first  play  of  the 
trilogy  represented  the  theft  of  fire.  Zeus  and  the 
Olympians  were  involved  in  a  tremendous  warfare  with  the 
Titans.  Prometheus,  himself  a  Titan  (whose  name  means 

1  This  is,  I  think,  the  natural  order.  Other  theories  either  place  the 
nup<j>6pos  last,  or  assume  that  ^Eschylus  competed  on  this  occasion  with 
two  plays,  not  three. 


THOMAS   HARDY   AND   AESCHYLUS        9 

forethought),  sided  with  Zeus,  and  demonstrated  to  him 
that  not  force  but  stratagem  and  cleverness  would  win 
the  day.  Having  thus  earned  the  gratitude  of  the  God  by 
enabling  him  to  win,  the  Titan,  grieved  to  the  soul  at 
seeing  the  wretched  lot  of  human  beings,  stole  fire  in  a 
hollow  reed  (fire  was  the  prerogative  of  Hephaestus),  and 
thus  bestowed  the  most  precious  of  all  boons,  the  source 
of  all  inventions  and  a  very  instrument  of  civilisation,  on 
the  miserable  inhabitants  of  earth.  For  this  act  of  bene- 
ficent larceny  the  Titan  is  condemned  to  a  severe  penalty. 
Zeus  ordains  that  he  shall  remain  bound  in  chains  on  a 
desolate  rock  until  such  time  as  he  bows  his  head  before 
the  sovereignty  of  the  Olympian  and  confesses  his  fault. 
We  see  him,  therefore,  at  the  opening  of  our  play — the 
second  of  the  trilogy — fastened  by  iron  rivets  to  his  rock 
and  calling  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  to  witness  to  the 
injustice  of  his  case.  Notice  in  passing  how  singular  this 
drama  is  in  its  immobility.  Drama  means  action,  whereas 
here  there  is  inaction.  Prometheus  remains  fastened  to 
his  rock  until  the  very  close,  when  he  and  the  rock  are 
swallowed  up  in  chaos,  and  the  whole  play  is,  as  it  were, 
immobilised  with  him. 

But  we  are  not  left  in  much  doubt  as  to  the  due  disposal 
of  our  sympathies.  I  will  defy  any  one  to  read  the  Prome- 
theus Vinctus  without  being  sorry  for  the  hero  and  enthu- 
siastically espousing  his  side  of  the  quarrel.  The  arrange- 
ments and  incidents  of  the  drama  make  this  clear.  After 
Hephaestus  has  done  his  sorry  work  and  left  Prometheus 
bound,  the  Chorus  enters.  And  of  whom  does  the  Chorus 
consist?  Of  the  daughters  of  Oceanus,  sea-maidens, 
tender,  emotional,  with  words  of  pity  and  consolation  in 
their  mouths,  only  too  anxious  to  do  the  hero  a  service 
and  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to  him  that,  as  ^Eschylus  quaintly 
says,  they  had  not  had  time  to  put  on  their  sandals.  The 
Oceanides  are  an  element  of  beauty  in  the  rugged,  un- 
friendly scene,  appealing  not  only  pictorially  to  the 
sympathetic  eyes  of  the  spectator,  but  morally  also,  inas- 
much as  they  loyally  brave  the  final  catastrophe  rather 
than  desert  their  friend.  Oceanus  himself,  when  he  comes 
on,  mounted  on  his  hippogriff,  represents  caution  and 
prudence,  for  he  recommends  the  Titan  to  make  his  peace 
with  Heaven;  but  he  does  not  speak  as  an  enemy,  but 
rather  in  the  language  of  common  sense  and  compromise. 
The  next  visitor  is  the  strange  figure  of  16,  whose  presence 


10  OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

here  is  very  significant.  She  is  Zeus' s  enemy,  or  rather 
the  victim  of  his  despotic  will,  tormented  by  a  gadfly 
because  she  refused  her  divine  lover's  embrace,  and  there- 
fore naturally  attracted  to  Prometheus  as  a  rebel  at  heart 
against  tyrannical  authority.  Even  Hephaestus,  who 
might  well  have  considered  himself  injured  by  the  theft  of 
his  special  privilege,  fire,  is  sorry  for  Prometheus;  and 
when  towards  the  close  of  the  drama  it  is  announced  that 
yet  more  terrible  suffering  is  to  befall  him — for  he  is  to  be 
cast  down  into  Hades  and  an  eagle  is  to  prey  on  his  liver, 
which  is  to  be  perpetually  renewed  in  order  that  there  may 
be  every  day  a  new  feast — we  feel  that  the  poet  has  with 
direct  intention  so  portrayed  his  hero's  fate  that  we  are 
full  of  compassion  for  the  victim,  and  of  indignation  against 
his  tormentor.  So  far  as  this  play  is  concerned,  the  Father 
of  Gods  and  Men  is  depicted  in  lurid  colours  as  an  unjust 
and  vindictive  bully,  using  his  power  ruthlessly  in  order 
to  injure  a  helper  and  ally. 

Yet  this  cannot  represent  a  permanent  mood  in  ^Eschylus. 
He  was,  as  we  know,  devout  and  pious,  sincerely  anxious 
to  bring  into  fruitful  and  beneficent  relation  humanity  and 
the  Godhead.  The  solution  of  the  enigma  is  to  be  found 
in  the  third  play  of  the  trilogy,  which  has  for  its  subject 
the  Deliverance.  How  is  Prometheus  delivered  ?  We 
have  only  a  few  fragments  to  guide  us,  but  it  is  not  very 
difficult  to  reconstruct  the  piece.  We  discover  that 
Prometheus  is  brought  out  of  Hades  and  has  at  his  side  a 
friend  in  Heracles — a  lineal  descendant  from  16,  whose 
future  progeny  was  foretold  by  the  Titan  in  the  earlier 
play.  The  eagle  arrives  to  carry  out  its  dreadful  task; 
Heracles  puts  an  arrow  on  his  bow-string,  takes  aim,  and 
the  eagle  falls.  The  process  of  reconciliation  then  proceeds 
apace.  Prometheus  was  the  possessor  of  a  secret  affecting 
the  future  of  Zeus.  If  the  God  carried  out  his  intention  of 
marrying  Thetis,  the  child  born  of  such  a  union  was  to 
prove  stronger  than  his  father,  just  as  Zeus  himself  had 
proved  stronger  than  Kronos.  This  secret  the  Titan  is 
now  induced  to  reveal — thus  adding  a  new  service  to  that 
which  he  had  originally  rendered  to  the  Olympian  monarch. 
Therefore  he  earns  his  pardon,  and  when  a  substitute  has 
been  found  to  go  down  to  Hades  in  his  place,  he  is  restored 
to  favour  and  given  a  special  festival  in  his  honour  at 
Athens.  Throughout  the  play,  apparently,  Zeus  is  portrayed 
as  in  a  kindly  mood,  ready  to  let  bygones  be  bygones. 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   ^SCHYLUS      11 

What  are  we  to  make  of  this  contrast  ?  The  design  of 
JSschylus  is  tolerably  clear.  The  Olympian  dynasty  has 
to  be  established,  taking  the  place  of  the  older,  more 
savage  Gods,  together  with  their  cruel  and  bloody  rites. 
So  Zeus,  who  has  killed  Kronos,  defeats  the  Titans.  But 
a  young  conqueror,  who  has  succeeded  by  force,  is  not 
likely  to  give  up  his  drastic  methods  when  first  he  gets 
the  reins  into  his  own  hands.  He  is  not  sufficiently  sure 
of  his  position.  Against  any  insurgent  or  rebel  he  will 
act  with  prompt  violence  :  conspirators,  whose  ultimate 
designs  are  not  clear,  must  be  treated  as  enemies  and 
crushed  forthwith.  This  is  the  stage  of  Zeus' s  rule  when 
Prometheus  steals  fire  for  the  sake  of  mankind.  The 
Olympian  King  will  endure  no  possible  rivals  near  his 
throne  and  at  once  condemns  the  friend  of  men  to  severe 
punishment.  But  after  a  time  Zeus' s  methods  change. 
He  has  gained  the  security  he  desired,  his  reign  is  estab- 
lished, and  he  can  therefore  afford  to  be  lenient.  He  is 
reconciled  to  Prometheus  and  forgives  him.  In  this  daring 
fashion  ^Eschylus  remodels  an  old  myth  in  order  to  satisfy 
the  moral  sense.  From  Zeus  the  young  despot  he  turns 
our  attention  to  Zeus  the  more  mature  ruler  of  a  better 
organised  Empire,  and  transforms  impatient  cruelty  into 
reasonable  benevolence.  The  reformed  Zeus  can  now  be 
an  object  of  reverence  and  receive  the  worship  which  is 
his  due. 

Let  us  not  say  in  a  hurry  that  such  a  theory  is  absurd 
and  puerile.  I  confess  that  it  looks  so  at  first  sight — just 
as  though  the  Greek  poet  were  trying  his  prentice  hand  at 
the  interpretation  of  mythology  and  leading  up  to  a 
hypothesis  not  only  inadequate  in  itself,  but  disrespectful 
to  the  Deity.  For  the  idea  of  growth  and  development 
may  be  held  to  be  disrespectful  to  the  Deity.  It  assumes 
that  there  was  something  lacking  in  him  at  the  start,  so 
that  he  commenced  his  career  somewhat  less  than  a  God 
in  order  to  grow  up  to  the  full  stature  of  his  Godhead. 
Zeus,  according  to  the  ^Eschylean  hypothesis,  began  with 
crude  views  as  to  the  necessity  of  violent  methods  in 
governing  the  world,  and  subsequently  after  much  profit- 
able experience  conceived  a  more  excellent  way.  Is  not 
such  an  admission  derogatory  to  the  Divine  Nature  ? 
Can  there  be  degrees  of  perfection,  gradations  of  omni- 
potence and  omniscience?  Curiously  enough,  however, 
much  the  same  theory — mutatis  mutandis — is  to  be  found 


12    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

in  Thomas  Hardy.  Through  nearly  all  the  numerous  acts 
and  scenes  of  The  Dynasts  the  Immanent  Will  is  described 
as  proceeding  on  its  dreary  path  blindly,  unintelligently, 
mechanically.  Its  aim  is  neither  Love  nor  Light.  It  has 
all  the  stark  pitilessness  of  the  Unconscious.  At  the  very 
end  of  the  drama  the  Chorus  of  Pities  is  allowed  to  suggest 
a  new  theory.  Is  it  not  possible  that  Fate  or  Will,  though 
it  does  not  possess  it  originally,  may  develop  Intelligence  ? 
May  not  Consciousness  be  evolved  out  of  Unconsciousness, 
as  a  civilised  ruler,  in  the  case  of  Zeus,  was  evolved  out  of 
a  savage  despot  ?  If  such  a  thing  were  possible — and  Mr. 
Hardy  is  clearly  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  not  yet — we 
should  have  a  beneficent  revolution,  a  new  efflorescence, 
"  Consciousness  the  WTill  informing  till  it  fashion  all  things 
fair  !  "  There  is,  too,  another  analogy  in  a  speculative 
theory  which  has  recommended  itself  to  thinkers  troubled 
with  the  existence  of  Evil  in  a  Divinely  appointed  Universe. 
How  can  God  sanction  Evil  ?  One  answer  is  that  He  does 
not  sanction  Evil — that  on  the  contrary  He  is  for  ever 
striving  against  it,  slowly  conquering  an  obstinate  material 
of  Unreason  and  Wickedness  and  Pain  :  to  which  is  added 
the  corollary  that  we  can  help  in  the  struggle,  each  in  our 
fashion,  by  love  and  self-control  and  self-sacrifice,  extending 
the  borders  of  goodness  and  circumscribing  more  and  more 
the  fast-receding  continent  of  111.  The  underlying  assump- 
tion here  is  that  though  we  can  ascribe  benevolence  to  the 
Deity,  we  cannot  ascribe  irresistible  power.  And  this 
being  so,  we  pray  that  God's  reign  may  develop  and  His 
kingdom  be  gradually  established — "  Thy  will  be  done," 
the  process  still  unaccomplished,  though  the  end  be  sure. 

§5 

It  is  time,  however,  to  return  from  the  relatively  im- 
mature speculations  of  .ZEschylus — who  being  a  dramatist 
was  more  interested  in  the  psychology  of  a  resisting  and 
suffering  Titan  than  in  the  economy  of  Heaven  which  made 
him  suffer — to  the  wonderful  choruses  of  the  Agamemnon. 
Here  we  have  a  series  of  important  affirmations  on  the 
character  of  Divine  Government,  on  the  relations  of  men  to 
God,  on  human  responsibility  and  the  ordinances  of  Fate. 
The  statements  are  not  very  specific  nor  very  consistent; 
we  should  hardly  expect  them  to  be,  as  expounded  by  a 
mystical  poet  in  lyrical  strains.  But  if  we  compare  them 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS      13 

with  the  odes  of  Pindar,  which  are  full  of  such  discussions, 
we  discover  that  in  ^Eschylus  we  have  a  far  stronger  and 
clearer  thinker.  Agamemnon  belonged  to  the  house  of 
Atreus,  and  it  was  a  doomed  house  ever  since  the  wrong 
done  by  Atreus  to  his  brother  Thyestes  in  serving  up  to  him 
a  horrible  repast  of  his  children's  flesh.  Then  came  the 
crime  of  Agamemnon  himself  in  sacrificing  his  daughter 
Iphigeneia  in  order  to  get  fair  winds  for  his  voyage  to  Troy 
and  other  crimes  such  as  a  conqueror  would  commit  in 
sacking  a  captured  city.  So  Agamemnon  is  killed  on  his 
return  home  by  his  wife  Clytemnestra  and  her  paramour 
^Egisthus ;  and  a  new  cry  for  vengeance  is  raised  on  behalf 
of  the  murdered  King.  Orestes,  Agamemnon's  son,  returns 
from  a  long  exile  and  puts  to  death  his  mother  as  well  as 
^Egisthus.  How  is  the  dreadful  vendetta  to  end?  How 
can  Orestes,  the  matricide,  be  rescued  from  the  avenging 
Furies  ?  Only  by  divine  interposition  and  a  formal  trial 
before  the  Areopagus,  when  Athene,  after  the  votes  were 
equal  for  punishment  and  acquittal,  gave  her  casting  vote 
for  Orestes,  and  the  plague  of  deaths  is  stayed.  This  in 
brief  outline  is  the  story,  raising  interesting  problems  in 
metaphysics  and  theology. 

^Eschylus  in  the  first  chorus  of  the  Agamemnon  attacks 
the  main  problem.  What  are  we  to  think  of  Zeus  ?  Let 
us  begin  by  conceding  that  no  definition  of  Zeus  is  possible. 
"  Zeus,  whoever  he  is,"  cries  the  Chorus,  "  if  this  name 
pleases  him,  by  this  name  will  I  address  him.  For  I  can 
conjecture  no  other  title  save  Zeus,  if  it  is  right  to  banish 
foolish  imaginings  from  the  mind."  1  The  poet  suggests 
that  true  worship  and  reverence  must  be  given  to  a  supreme 
God,  without  encumbering  ourselves  with  mythological 
tales.  We  lose  all  the  majesty  of  Godhead  if  we  make  a 
human  picture  of  him  and  construe  him  to  ourselves  as 
jealous  and  partial  and  inclined  to  numerous  amours. 
That  is  a  man-made  God,  the  work  of  anthropomorphism. 
What  we  want  is  a  more  philosophical  conception,  neces- 
sarily vague,  yet  sufficient  for  our  faith  and  our  prayer. 
Moreover,  the  Godhead  is  one — one  God,  not  many  Gods. 
And  little  as  we  know  about  him,  we  know  at  least  that  he 
is  a  moral  force.  For  he  educates  man  by  suffering,  teach- 
ing even  the  unwilling  to  be  wise  by  ordaining  pain  as  the 
punishment  for  evil-doing.  It  is  the  law  of  his  universe 
that  knowledge  comes  by  melancholy  experience  of  sorrow 

Ag.,  160  et  sqq. 


14    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

and  suffering.  God's  punishment  is  therefore  not  vin- 
dictive :  it  is  educative — opening  blind  eyes  to  the  realities 
of  things.  Zeus' s  purpose  is  to  make  men  better.  Such 
is  the  noble  creed,  outlined  for  us  in  noble  language  in  the 
first  chorus  of  the  Agamemnon. 

The  second  chorus  starts  another  problem.1  Is  the  ruler 
of  Heaven  a  Providence,  as  well  as  a  ruler  ?  Do  the  Gods 
care  for  mortal  things  ?  It  is  impious  to  doubt  it.  To 
believe  that  the  Gods  are  such  as  Epicurus — at  a  later 
period — described  them,  living  in  their  celestial  abodes, 
unconcerned  with  human  affairs,  existing  easily  because 
unperturbed  with  trouble  or  responsibility,  amounts  to  a 
disbelief  that  they  are  Gods  at  all.  If  we  refuse  to  accept 
an  atheistical  position  of  this  kind,  then  the  only  alternative 
is  to  have  faith  in  the  wise  ordinances  of  Heaven  and  to 
wait  for  the  issue  which  Providence  has  decreed.  If  the 
mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they  grind  exceeding  small. 
Look,  for  instance,  at  the  career  of  Paris.  Idle,  debonair, 
effeminate,  a  lover  of  beauty,  he  is  the  favourite  of  Aphro- 
dite, and  as  such  wins  the  love  of  Helen,  the  wife  of  his 
host,  Menelaus,  and  persuades  her  to  elope  with  him  to 
Troy.  But  does  such  traitorous  work  prosper  ?  Menelaus, 
betrayed  and  forlorn,  can  find  no  joy  in  Art  or  Life  now  that 
the  loved  one  is  gone,  but  he  gets  his  due  revenge.  Paris 
involves  his  city  and  himself  in  utter  ruin,  and  on  his 
conscience  lies  heavy  the  doom  of  all  the  brave  men  who 
perished  in  his  quarrel.  Were  the  Gods  regardless  of 
human  justice  in  the  death  of  Paris  and  the  fall  of  Troy  ? 

Having  settled  this  problem  to  their  satisfaction,  the 
Chorus  in  their  third  lyrical  ode  address  themselves  to  an 
equally  important  and  difficult  question.  It  was  said  by 
men  of  old  time  that  God  is  jealous.  He  cannot  brook  the 
excessive  prosperity  of  men,  and  if  Polycrates  of  Samos  is 
born  under  a  lucky  star,  he  must  pay  compensation  for  his 
good  fortune,  which,  even  so,  may  be  rejected  of  Heaven. 
Is  it  true  that  greatness  and  prosperity  inevitably  call 
down  wrath  from  an  offended  Godhead?  Such  a  view 
involves  a  mistaken  estimate  of  divine  laws  and  utterly 
misconceives  the  true  relation  of  punishment  to  wrong- 
doing. "  I  alone,"  says  the  leader  of  the  Chorus,  speaking 
no  doubt  the  mind  of  ^Eschylus,  "  I  alone  am  of  a  different 
opinion."  2  It  is  Sin  which  is  punished,  the  godless  act. 
The  innocent  have  a  fair  lot.  Observe  that  the  poet  tells 
.  Ag.,  355-487.  2  Msch.,  Ag.,  750-781. 


THOMAS  HARDY  AND  ^SCHYLUS      15 

us  especially  that  his  own  view  is  singular,  and  is  not  shared 
by  the  multitude.  But  he  is  sure  of  his  ground.  It  is  not 
prosperity  as  such,  it  is  the  mental  effect  of  prosperity— 
the  arrogance  bred  in  the  prosperous  and  wealthy  man — 
which  ultimately  brings  down  the  wrath  from  God.  The 
fatal  heritage  runs  thus.  Affluence  breeds  insolence 
(vfiQit;).  Insolence  leads  to  many  evil  things — impiety, 
hardihood,  recklessness — and  the  evil  man  spurns  with  his 
foot  the  altar  of  justice.  Then  comes  Nemesis,  apportion- 
ing to  each  man  the  lot  he  deserves,  and  therefore  over- 
whelming the  confident  sinner  with  ruin.  And  so  it 
happens  that  wealthy  halls  in  which  defiance  and  pride 
and  boundless  conceit  reign  are  not  happy.  Justice  shines 
in  poor  men's  homes  and  has  no  regard  for  wealth.  Gold 
is  wrongly  stamped  with  praise.  All  this  is,  the  poet 
thinks,  borne  out  in  the  history  of  the  Atreidae. 

"  But  Arrogance,  in  sin  grown  grey 

Mid  vile  men,  bears  a  child  at  length 
Like  her  in  name,  in  lusty  strength, 
Or  soon  or  late,  when  dawns  her  day ; 

"  Yea,  and  a  brother-fiend,  whom  none 
May  cope  with,  impious  Hardihood — 
Black  curses  twain  o'er  homes  that  brood, 
And  like  their  dam  each  demon  son. 

"  In  smoke-fouled  huts  doth  Justice  shine; 
On  virtuous  lives  she  still  hath  smiled  : 
From  gold-tricked  halls  and  hands  defiled, 
She  turns  her  with  averted  eyne. 

"  A  guest  she  is  of  each  pure  soul : 

She  on  the  power  of  wealth  looks  down, 
With  all  its  base  coin  of  renown  : 
She  guide th  all  things  to  their  goal."  1 

This  is  the  clearest  vindication  of  the  Divine  justice 
which  JEschylus  gives  us,  and  it  represents  the  most  acute 
point  of  difference  between  him  and  a  poet  like  Mr.  Hardy. 
For  with  the  modern  writer,  it  is  precisely  the  random 
arbitrariness  of  the  Immanent  Will,  which  in  passage  after 
passage  he  emphasises.  If  a  will  is  both  arbitrary  and 
reckless,  it  is  assuredly  unjust  in  its  effects.  Of  its  motives 
we  cannot  speak,  for,  not  being  conscious  motives,  they  do 
not  enter  into  the  question.  Even  the  word  arbitrary 
connotes  a  sort  of  intelligence,  and  therefore,  strictly 

1  Msdiylus  in  English  Verse,  Part  III.,  Arthur  S.  Way,  p.  34. 


16    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

speaking,  cannot  be  used  of  the  blind  purposeless  Will. 
At  all  events,  there  can  be  no  suggestion  of  a  nice  adjust- 
ment of  punishment  to  crime,  for  neither  punishment  nor 
crime  has  any  meaning  in  an  irrational  universe  in  which 
men  are  victims  of  Fate. 

Oddly  enough,  however,  we  find  in  the  fourth  chorus  of 
the  Agamemnon  an  allusion  to  Fate  which  disquiets  us. 
Fate  is  declared  to  be  greater  than  Zeus.1  Now  Prome- 
theus knew  that  Fate  was  greater  than  Zeus,  because,  as  is 
told  in  the  play,  the  hero  held  in  his  hands  a  secret  decree 
of  Fate  which  would  either  doom  or  save  the  Olympian  God, 
according  as  it  was  obeyed  or  defied.  But  if  Fate  is  thus 
supreme  over  the  Deity,  how  much  more  must  it  be 
supreme  over  man  ?  And  in  that  case  what  becomes  of 
the  whole  theory  of  man's  responsibility  for  his  action, 
in  virtue  of  which  we  call  him  a  sinner  or  a  saint  ?  And 
how  can  punishment  be  just  in  the  case  of  one  who  is  not 
a  free  agent?  These,  of  course,  are  the  never-ending 
problems  which  every  theology  must  seek  to  solve.  If  man 
is  not  free,  why  is  he  punished  ?  If  he  is  free,  how  is  his 
liberty  of  choice  related  to  Divine  predestination  and  fore- 
knowledge ?  If  JEschylus  is  not  wholly  consistent  in  his 
handling  of  the  question,  we  can  at  least  say  that  he  is  not 
more  inconsistent  than  the  majority  of  those  who  have 
speculated  on  Fate,  Free  Will,  Fore-knowledge  Absolute. 
And,  so  far  as  the  Agamemnon  is  concerned,  the  poet  lays 
no  stress  on  his  doctrine  of  Fate.  It  comes  in  as  a  casual 
reflection,  unrelated  to  the  main  philosophical  and  religious 
theory  embodied  in  the  choruses  of  the  play. 

1  .ZEsch.,  Ag.,  1025. 


MR.  THOMAS  HARDY  AND  AESCHYLUS 
II 

»  "  Let  me  enjoy  the  world  no  less 

Because  the  all-enacting  Might 
That  fashioned  forth  its  loveliness 
Had  other  aims  than  my  delight." 

MR.  THOMAS  HARDY  made  his  reputation  by  a  series  of 
fine  novels,  such  as  Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd,  A  Pair 
of  Blue  Eyes,  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge,  The  Trumpet- 
Major,  The  Return  of  the  Native,  Tess  of  the  Tf  Urbewilles, 
and  Jude  the  Obscure.  One  at  least,  let  us  note  in  passing, 
The  Trumpet-Major,  has  a  background  of  war — as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  Napoleonic  War,  which  occupies  Mr.  Hardy 
in  The  Dynasts.  And  all  of  these  novels  have  certain 
marked  characteristics  which  are  of  the  greatest  significance 
in  estimating  the  author' s  work.  There  is  a  love  of  natural 
phenomena  in  all  their  aspects — the  storm,  the  heath,  the 
village ;  a  tenderness  for  the  humbler  workers  on  the  land, 
as  well  as  the  yeoman-farmers;  a  general  distaste  for 
the  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  whom  Mr.  Hardy  cannot 
sympathise  with,  and  therefore  cannot  draw;  a  certain 
view  of  women,  drawn  with  great  subtlety  and  insight, 
which  makes  them  almost  a  daemonic  element  in  human 
affairs,  and  strangely  differentiates  them  from  George 
Meredith' s  women ;  and  a  curious  tendency  to  make  use  of 
coincidence  in  working  out  the  plots.  Apart,  however, 
from  all  these  points,  which  are  obvious  to  most  readers, 
there  is  a  general  atmosphere  surrounding  the  incidents 
which  we  often  find  difficult  to  breathe;  or  we  may  call 
it  a  background,  a  mise-en-scene  in  which  the  stories  are 
set  and  from  which  they  take  a  definite  colour  of  sombreness 
and  gloom.  Marriages  are  unhappy,  and  it  is  equally 
unhappy  to  remain  single ;  lovers  do  not  meet  at  the  close 
of  their  long  journey  of  misunderstanding  and  separation; 
the  cup  of  happiness  proffered  to  eager  lips  is  ruthlessly 
dashed  away;  the  rebel  against  convention  is  as  much  a 
c  17 


18    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

failure  as  the  man  or  woman  who  humbly  accepts  conven- 
tion as  a  guide ;  and,  worst  of  all,  there  is  heard  now  and 
again  an  echo  of  ironical  laughter  in  Heaven.  Jude  when 
he  accepted  the  obligations  of  matrimony  is  no  more 
successful  than  when  he  broke  loose  from  them.  Tess  is 
throughout  the  sport  of  unkind  Fate — Fate  which,  de- 
scribed as  President  of  the  Immortals,  only  ends  his  sport 
with  her  when,  as  a  murderess,  she  dies  on  the  scaffold. 
Bathsheba,  in  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,  only  escapes 
because  of  the  moral  strength  and  sanity  of  Gabriel  Oak, 
one  of  the  few  vigorous  and  independent  characters  in  Mr. 
Hardy's  picture  gallery.  It  is  impossible  to  avoid  the 
impression  that,  in  the  author's  scheme,  we  are  all  rats 
in  a  trap,  doomed  to  break  ourselves  against  the  wires  in 
situations  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  victims  of  a  Power 
which  has  predestined  us  from  all  eternity.  In  other  words, 
Mr.  Hardy's  is  a  fatalistic  creed,  based  on  philosophic 
Nescience,  a  scientific  belief  that  the  Power  at  the  back  of 
things  is  a  blind,  purposeless  agency,  to  which  we  must 
be  careful  not  to  assign  human  or  moral  attributes,  and 
which  we  must  be  content — with  Mr.  Hardy — to  call  "  It," 
and  never  "  Him." 


Now  it  is  not  easy  for  the  ordinary  man  to  understand  the 
mental  detachment  of  the  scientific  thinker.  The  attitude 
of  cold  curiosity,  the  exclusion  of  all  other  interests  except 
the  desire  for  truth,  the  rigid  employment  of  analysis,  the 
clear  estimation  of  the  relative  values  of  good  and  bad 
evidence,  the  building  up  of  a  conclusion  based  on  rigorously 
sifted  data — all  these  things  are  uncongenial  to  the  average 
man,  and  therefore  appear  to  indicate  callousness  and  in- 
humanity. The  majority  of  us  are  apt  to  look  upon  the 
world  and  all  that  is  in  it  as  they  affect  ourselves,  from  a 
purely  human  point  of  view.  To  regard  the  cosmos  of 
things  as  it  is  in  itself,  abstracted  from  the  way  in  which 
human  beings  feel  and  think  about  it,  requires  an  intel- 
lectual effort  based  on  a  definite  logical  training.  How  shall 
we  illustrate  this  contrast?  Early  astronomers  thought 
that  the  earth  was  the  centre  of  the  universe,  the  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  circling  round  it.  Then  came  Copernicus, 
Galileo,  and  the  rest  to  prove  that  it  was  the  earth  which 
was  in  continuous  movement,  travelling  in  its  orbit  round 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS      19 

the  sun.  The  change  in  attitude  revolutionised  astronomy. 
In  much  the  same  way  thought  is  revolutionised  when, 
instead  of  looking  upon  our  earth  as  created  to  minister 
to  our  wants  and  emotions,  we  carefully  exclude  the  human 
factor  in  studying  the  constitution  of  the  world.  Instead 
of  our  inquiries  radiating  in  different  directions  from  the 
Ego  or  Self  as  a  centre,  we  now  observe  how  the  nature  of 
things,  the  various  properties  and  powers  of  the  world,  full 
of  their  own  intrinsic  energy,  impinge  and  act  upon  sentient 
human  beings.  The  first  state  of  mind  might  be  described 
as  anthropocentric,  the  second  as  cosmocentric. 

But  of  course  it  is  difficult  for  a  poet  and  impossible  for  a 
dramatist  to  exclude  the  human  factor.  However  much  a 
student  of  science  may  succeed  in  riveting  his  attention 
on  the  universe  of  things,  and  may  refuse  to  consider  man 
otherwise  than  as  a  mere  item  or  element  in  a  cosmos 
arranged  for  other  ends  than  man's  satisfaction,  the  claims 
of  the  human  factor  are  bound  to  speak  through  the  voice 
of  the  poet  and  to  find  a  potent  advocate  in  the  writer  of 
drama.  Lyrical  and  elegiac  pieces  are  the  outcome  of 
strong  personal  feeling ;  human  emotion  rings  in  the  epic ; 
the  strong  cry  of  the  suffering  soul — striving,  battling, 
enduring,  dying — echoes  through  and  through  every 
passionate  tragedy  which  ever  was  written.  Mr.  Hardy, 
despite  his  theory,  cannot,  however  much  he  tries,  remain 
on  the  cold,  abstract  level  of  science.  The  world  may  be 
the  scene  of  blind  energies  working  remorselessly  towards 
a  goal  we  wot  not  of,  but  it  is  the  piteous  tale  of  man  which 
is  of  absorbing  interest  to  us.  Listen  to  this,  taken  from 
one  of  Mr.  Hardy' s  poems  : 

"  Or  come  we  of  an  Automaton 
Unconscious  of  our  pains  ? 
Or  are  we  live  remains 
Of  Godhead  dying  downwards,  brain  and  eye  now  gone  ? 

"  Or  is  it  that  some  high  Plan  betides, 
As  yet  not  understood, 
Of  Evil  stormed  by  Good, 
We,  the  forlorn  hope,  over  which  Achievement  strides  ?  " 

Here  is  the  problem,  envisaged  quite  plainly,  though  not 
explicitly,  from  the  human  point  of  view.  It  may  be 
Nature  which  is  speaking,  but  it  is,  above  all,  human  nature. 
The  various  alternatives  are  set  out  as  so  many  points  on 
which  we  desire  enlightenment.  Are  we  mere  puppets 
dancing  to  a  tune  which  the  Automaton  sets  ?  Or  are  we 


20    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  poor  wraiths  and  ghosts  of  what  was  once  Godlike,  but 
which  has  now  hopelessly  deteriorated  ?  Or — and  here 
sounds  the  voice  of  Hope,  the  last  thing  left  in  Pandora's 
box — are  we  the  champions  of  some  mighty  project  and 
purpose,  for  which  we  must  cheerfully  give  our  lives  if 
only  those  who  come  after  us  may  win  where  we  failed  ? 
Mr."  Hardy  gives  us  no  answer  to  these  questions.  "  Earth' s 
old  glooms  and  pains  are  still  the  same."  But  what  we 
catch  in  these  lines  is  the  whisper  of  that  divine  discontent, 
which  can  never  get  satisfaction  from  a  purely  scientific 
view  of  the  world,  craving,  as  it  perpetually  does,  for  more 
light  and  a  more  comfortable  assurance. 

§  2 

There  is,  in  consequence,  one  reflection  which  inevitably 
occurs  to  the  mind.  A  poet  with  difficulty  acquiesces  in  a 
soulless  Universe.  But  what  of  a  dramatist  who  is  con- 
fronted by  the  picture  of  a  will-less  humanity  ?  So  far  as 
Mr.  Hardy  accepts  the  scientific  view  of  man  and  woman 
as  mere  automata  or  puppets,  so  far  must  he  find  his 
occupation  gone,  or  severely  attenuated,  as  a  writer  of 
drama.  For  drama  is  action,  human  action,  and  the  clash 
of  wills  is,  as  we  know,  the  essence  of  tragedy.  But  what 
is  the  value  of  action  which  is  purposeless,  and  what  is 
the  interest  of  conflicting  wills  in  the  absence  of  independ- 
ence and  responsibility  ?  In  The  Dynasts  Mr.  Hardy  paints 
for  us  some  extremely  vivid  and  dramatic  situations. 
There  is,  for  instance,  the  death  of  Nelson  on  board  the 
Victory,  the  fatal  Russian  campaign  and  the  overthrow  of 
Napoleon's  hopes,  the  field  of  Waterloo  with  all  its  wild 
confusion  and  desperate  charges,  besides  many  a  stirring 
little  vignette  of  lowly  lives  in  which  eager  personalities 
are  seen  with  their  mingled  strength  and  weakness.  But 
what  is  the  dramatic  value  of  Nelson  as  a  puppet,  Welling- 
ton and  Pitt  as  automata,  Napoleon,  himself  as  a  pawn  in 
the  blind  game  of  chess  played  by  the  Immanent  Will? 
Once  or  twice  Napoleon  speaks  of  himself  as  a  mere  instru- 
ment in  the  hands  of  Fate,  and  therefore  not  responsible 
for  his  actions.  But  it  is  only  by  refusing  so  to  regard  him 
that  we  preserve  his  significance  in  the  drama.  Happily, 
in  reading  these  scenes  or  seeing  them  on  the  stage,  we 
ignore  or  forget  Mr.  Hardy's  own  views  of  their  meaning. 
The  human  actors  in  the  tragedy  appeal  to  us  as  warm, 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS      21 

sentient,  passionate  beings,  to  whom  their  real  fate  is  their 
character,  and  who  know  what  they  are  doing  and  struggling 
for.  The  background  of  Spirits,  sinister  and  ironic,  leaves, 
and  inevitably  leaves,  us  cold. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  invention  of  a  Spirit-world  over- 
looking the  play  is  a  concession  to  our  weakness — or,  I 
should  rather  say,  to  our  not  unnatural  human  demand. 
Science  clearly  would  not  sanction  such  extravagant 
fancies  as  Spirits  of  the  Pities  or  Choruses  of  the  Years. 
Let  us  see  what  the  author  himself  says  about  them  in  the 
preface  to  The  Dynasts.  "  It  was  thought  proper,"  he  says, 
"  to  introduce  as  supernatural  spectators  of  the  terrestrial 
drama  certain  impersonated  abstractions,  or  Intelligences, 
called  Spirits.  They  are  intended  to  be  taken  by  the  reader 
for  what  they  may  be  worth  as  contrivances  of  the  fancy 
merely."  He  goes  on  to  say  that  we  must  not  expect  from 
them  a  systematised  philosophy,  but  he  hopes  that  "  their 
utterances  may  have  enough  dramatic  plausibility  to  pro- 
cure for  them,  in  the  words  of  Coleridge,  '  that  willing  sus- 
pension of  disbelief  for  the  moment  which  constitutes 
poetic  faith.'  '  We  may  remark  in  passing  that  though 
Mr.  Hardy  warns  us  against  basing  a  systematised  philo- 
sophy on  what  these  Spirits  say,  such  philosophy  as  we 
can  extract  is  so  precisely  that  which  we  gather  from 
Mr.  Hardy's  novels  and  poems  that  we  need  not  hesitate  to 
regard  it  as  the  author's  own.  The  only  difference  is  that 
what  was  hinted  before  is  now  put  before  us  in  an  explicit 
shape,  and  that  a  creed,  which  might  almost  be  called 
systematised,  takes  the  place  of  casual  references  and 
allusions.  There  is  no  doubt,  therefore,  that  what  the 
ancient  Spirit  of  the  Years  says  is  what  Mr.  Hardy  thinks, 
and  that  the  general  scheme  adumbrated  by  these  Intelli- 
gences is  the  most  reasonable  solution  the  poet  can  give  of 
the  mystery  of  this  unintelligible  world. 

But  why  is  the  Spirit  World  introduced  at  all?  The 
answer  is  curious  and  significant.  The  author  feels  the 
want  of  something  like  the  celestial  machinery  we  find  in 
Homer,  Virgil,  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  Divine  person- 
ages are  very  useful  to  the  writers  of  epics,  because  they 
serve  as  "  ready-made  sources  or  channels  of  Causation."  In 
other  words,  they  explain  how  things  happen  by  linking  them 
on  to  the  exercise  of  conscious  Wills.  But  Mr.  Hardy's 
scheme  does  not  admit  conscious  volition.  Therefore, 
in  a  world  of  Necessity  and  Automatism,  he  is  driven 


22    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

to  devise  imaginary  shapes  which  have  nothing  to  do  with 
guiding  the  world  on  its  course,  but  which  may  express 
human  feeling  or  supply  human  comment.  Considering 
that  the  panorama  we  are  invited  to  survey  is  inhuman, 
soulless,  and  will-less,  we  must  find  consolation  in  inventing 
volatile  agencies  which  are,  at  all  events,  lively,  active,  and 
conscious  of  what  they  are  doing.  Indeed,  one  group- 
that  of  the  Pities — corresponds  in  some  measure,  as  the 
author  tells  us,  to  the  Chorus  in  a  Greek  play — the  spectator 
idealised  and  sympathetic.  All  drama  craves  for  as  much 
humanity  as  we  can  put  into  it,  and  it  is  because  Mr.  Hardy 
instinctively  feels  this  necessity  that  his  actual  practice  in 
The  Dynasts  is  better  than  his  theory.  His  theory  is  cold- 
blooded, but  his  Chorus  of  the  Pities  is  warm  with  human 
interest  and  feeling.  "  Sunt  lacrimae  rerum  "  even  in  a 
Monistic  scheme  of  the  Universe. 


§3 

It  is  time,  however,  to  come  to  closer  grips  with  Mr. 
Hardy's  supernatural  apparatus.  The  denizens  of  his 
Olympus,  which  he  calls  the  "  Overworld,"  are  the  Ancient 
Spirit  of  the  Years,  the  Spirit  of  the  Pities — each  with  its 
attendant  Chorus — the  Shade  of  the  Earth,  Spirits  Sinister 
and  Ironic,  with  their  Choruses,  Messengers,  and  Recording 
Angels;  while  as  Zeus,  or  King  of  this  Divine  company, 
the  First  or  Fundamental  Energy,  is  called  "  It."  Most 
of  these  have  a  specific  task.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
Spirit  of  the  Years  to  explain ;  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Pities 
to  ask  questions  and  complain;  of  the  Spirits  Ironic  and 
Sinister  to  jeer  and  make  satirical  remarks.  The  Shade 
of  the  Earth  opens  the  drama  with  the  query,  "  What  of 
the  Immanent  Will  and  Its  designs  ?  "  and  the  Spirit  of 
the  Years  makes  answer  : 

"  It  works  unconsciously,  as  heretofore, 
Eternal  artistries  in  Circumstance, 
Whose  patterns,  wrought  by  rapt  aesthetic  rote, 
Seem  in  themselves  Its  single  listless  aim 
And  not  their  consequence."  1 

"  Why  this  eternal  monotony  ?  "  ask  the  Pities,  and  we 
are  given  two  possible  hypotheses.  Either  the  Will  is 
tired  with  this  world  and  is  occupied  with  other  worlds, 

*  Dynasts,  Fore-scene. 


THOMAS  HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS      23 

or  else  our  world  lost  the  Will's  original  watchful  care  owing 
to  the  wickedness  of  early  men  who  contrived  to  sever  us 
from  Heaven.  But  may  not  some  startling  event  bring 
b&ck  the  old  Providence  ?  No,  there  is  no  evidence  avail- 
able to  make  us  think  that  thoughtful  design  either  is  or 
ever  was  part  of  the  scheme.  On  the  contrary,  the  data 
seem  to  prove  that : 

"  Like  a  knitter  drowsed, 
Whose  fingers  play  in  skilled  unmindf  ulness, 
The  Will  has  woven  with  an  absent  heed 
Since  life  first  was  :  and  ever  will  so  weave."  * 

That  is  a  final  verdict,  and  it  is  only  left  for  the  Pities  to 
urge  how  much  better  it  would  be  for  mankind  and  the 
world  if,  instead  of  tyrants  like  Napoleon,  they  were  guided 
by  merciful  and  peaceful  leaders,  "  men  of  deep  art  in  life- 
development."  But  that  is  apparently  impossible.  "  Old 
laws  operate  yet,"  and  men's  "  dynastic  and  imperial  moils 
shape  on  accustomed  lines."  And  thus  in  our  melancholy 
contemporary  experience  an  Amurath  an  Amurath  succeeds, 
and  Napoleon  is  followed  by  Kaiser  Wilhelm. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  this  is  a  dreary  prospect,  nor 
that  our  author  is  one  of  the  most  dispassionate  of  observers. 
He  often  strikes  the  reader  as  being  only  coldly  interested 
in  his  themes,  like  his  Spirit  of  the  Years,  who,  when  he 
regards  dynastic  and  imperial  ambitions,  declares,  "  I  care 
not  how  they  shape  or  what  they  be."  Curiosity,  perhaps, 
is  his  chief  characteristic — a  keen  scientific  curiosity  which 
accepts  the  conclusions  to  which  his  logic  drives  him  without 
faltering.  His  attitude  to  women  is  significant  in  this 
regard.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  may  be  said  that 
Mr.  Hardy  is  an  apologist  for  women,  but  that  does  not  pre- 
vent him  from  being  cruel  in  his  analysis.  He  looks  upon 
woman  in  her  humours,  moods,  and  vagaries  as  being  in  an 
especial  degree  an  instrument  through  which  Fate  works 
out  its  schemes.  Fate  is,  as  it  were,  incarnated  in  her. 
Complicated  questions  of  sex  are  intensely  interesting  to 
Mr.  Hardy ;  the  difficulties  of  the  married  state  are  harped 
upon  with  almost  wearisome  iteration  in  most  of  his  novels. 
But  he  draws  his  pictures  without  pity;  his  curiosity  is 
usually  frigid,  and  sometimes  almost  morbid.  To  a  mind 
like  his,  therefore,  a  huge  drama  like  the  struggle  of  England 
against  Napoleon  is  not  regarded  as  a  battle-royal  between 

1  Dynasts,  Fore-scene. 


24    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

rival  wills  and  competing  ambitions,  with  various  interludes 
in  which  strength  and  weakness,  passion  and  frailty,  make 
their  appeal  to  our  sensitive  sympathy;  but  a  mechanical 
game  of  celestial  chess  in  which  the  Immanent  Will  makes 
its  blind  moves  without  prescience  or  purpose,  and  human 
beings  are  helpless  pawns  or  counters  pushed  hither  and 
thither  as  chance — which  is  Fate — directs.  Look  at  the 
stage  direction  which  Mr.  Hardy  gives  us  from  time  to 
time,  as  if  to  remind  us  of  the  true  inwardness  of  his 
drama  : 

"  The  nether  sky  opens,  and  Europe  is  disclosed  as  a. 
prone  and  emaciated  figure,  the  Alps  shaping  like  a  back- 
bone, and  the  branching  mountain-chains  like  ribs,  the 
peninsular  plateau  of  Spain  forming  a  head.  .  .  ,  The 
point  of  view  then  sinks  downwards  through  space  and 
draws  near  to  the  surface  of  the  perturbed  countries,  where 
the  peoples,  distressed  by  events  which  they  did  not  cause, 
are  seen  writhing,  crawling,  heaving,  and  vibrating  in  their 
various  cities  and  nationalities.  ...  A  new  and  pene- 
trating light  descends  on  the  spectacle,  enduing  men  and 
things  with  a  seeming  transparency,  and  exhibiting  as  one 
organism  the  anatomy  of  life  and  movement  in  all  humanity 
and  vitalised  matter  included  in  the  display."  The  Spirit 
of  the  Pities,  looking  at  the  scene,  discerns  certain  waves 
"  like  winds  grown  visible,"  twining  and  serpentining,  and 
retracting  threads  like  gossamers,  which  bear  men's  forms 
on  their  coils.  These,  says  the  Spirit  of  the  Years,  are 
fibrils,  veins,  will-tissues,  nerves,  and  pulses  of  the  one 
Immanent  Will,  "  evolving  always  that  it  wots  not  of." 
Men  think  their  deeds  self-done ;  they  fancy  that  they  are 
acting  in  freedom.  In  reality  they  are  but  "  atoms  of 
the  One,  labouring  through  all,  divisible  from  none." 

§  4 

We  may  shiver  at  so  inhuman  a  creed,  but  it  does  not 
overwhelm  us,  because  as  man  is  always  and  everywhere 
better  than  the  tenets  he  professes  to  hold,  so,  too, 
Mr.  Hardy  is  far  more  clement  than  his  doctrine  of  the 
Immanent  Will.  The  essential  disadvantage  of  an  abstract 
system  of  purposeless  activity,  which  is  to  get  rid  of  human 
volition  and,  indeed,  destroy  the  reality  of  human  beings 
themselves,  is  that  no  one  can  believe  in  it  for  more  than 
a  few  minutes  together — and  then  only  in  a  severely  logical 


THOMAS  HARDY  AND   ^SCHYLUS      25 

mood.  Daily  experience  is  too  strong  for  us,  and  ordinary 
intercourse  with  our  friends  seems  to  give  the  lie  to  our 
scientific  theory.  For  we  see  men  acting  under  the  impres- 
sion that  they  are  responsible  for  their  acts,  and  we  observe 
legal  punishments  inflicted  on  the  assumption  that  the 
individual  can  sin  against  the  light.  It  is  a  natural  inference 
that,  inasmuch  as  all  life,  social  and  political,  is  based  on 
the  supposition  that  men  are  free  agents,  we  cannot  be 
far  wrong  if  we  take  for  granted  the  existence  of  real 
individuals,  centres  of  force  and  in  essence  independent. 
Obviously,  then,  it  requires  a  strong  and  sustained  effort 
to  believe  that  all  these  evidences  of  life  are  illusions,  and 
that  nothing  really  moves  but  a  blind  and  irrational 
Immanent  Will.  And  if  this  is  the  case  with  the  ordinary 
man,  still  more  must  it  be  so  with  the  dramatist.  For  he, 
as  we  have  already  said,  is  specially  concerned  with  human 
action  and  with  the  griefs  and  joys  of  self-conscious  per- 
sonalities— all  of  which  tumble  into  nothingness  if  only 
the  One  exists  or  moves.  And  here,  once  more,  we  may 
illustrate  the  point  by  a  reference  to  .^Eschylus,  who  was 
no  more  consistent  with  the  demands  of  his  lofty  theory 
than  other  poets  and  philosophers.  We  have  seen  that 
sometimes  he  suggests  that  Fate  is  higher  than  Zeus,  and 
if  that  be  so  the  whole  of  his  creed  of  a  beneficent  Providence 
falls  to  the  ground.  There  can  be  no  Providence  if  the 
God  is  overruled  by  a  coldly  omnipotent  Destiny.  And  in 
a  fragment  from  an  unknown  play  of  his,  the  Heliades, 
we  have  a  still  more  startling  theory.  "  Zeus,"  he  says, 
"  is  the  aether,  the  earth,  the  sky;  Zeus  is  everything 
that  exists,  and  still  greater  than  these."  1  This  is  the 
theory  of  Pantheism ;  and  it  not  only  makes  human  liberty 
impossible,  but  it  absolutely  upsets  all  that  JEschylus  has 
told  us  elsewhere  about  a  Zeus  who  is  the  son  of  Kronos 
and  the  last  arrived  of  the  masters  of  the  world. 


§5 

It  is  interesting,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  to  observe  how  here 
and  there  in  the  course  of  The  Dynasts  Mr.  Hardy  gives 
us  indications  and  suggestions  of  dissatisfaction  with  his 

1  Zeus  sffriv  aiO-fip,  Zeus  5e  777,  Zeus  8'  ovpav6s, 
Zeus  rot  TO.  irdvTa,  x&ri  Tw^S'  vireprepov. 

A  treatise  of  Philodemus,  found  at  Herculaneum,  gives  us  the  title  of  the 
play  in  which  these  verses  are  found. 


26    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

scientific  doctrine  of  the  One.  It  is  the  Chorus  and  the 
x^Spirit  of  the  Pities — naturally  enough — which  voice  the 
human  cry.  Surveying  the  course  of  action  from  their 
privileged  standpoint,  they  see  the  melancholy  tragedy 
of  the  war,  and  cry  out  with  Othello,  "  The  pity  of  it,  the 
pity  of  it,  lago."  Their  usual  attitude  is  to  disbelieve 
the  grim  irony  of  a  Will  which  knows  not  what  it  wills, 
or,  at  all  events,  to  hope  for  some  alleviation  of  the  cruel 
decrees  of  destiny. 

"  This  tale  of  Will 

And  Life's  impulsion  by  Incognisance 
I  cannot  take." 

they  say  in  Act  I.,  Sc.  6;  and  later  on,  in  Act  V.,  Sc.  4, 
they  sympathise  with  what  Sophocles  put  in  the  mouth 
of  Hyllus  (Trachinice,  1266-72),  when  he  arraigned  the 
Gods  for  their  treatment  of  Hercules.  The  Chorus  adds, 
a  little  farther  on  : 

"  Why  make  life  debtor  when  it  did  not  buy  ?  " 

In  such  criticisms  the  point  is  the  injustice  of  a  system 
which  after  creating  human  life  makes  it  so  helpless  and 
so  enslaved.  In  Act  L,  Sc.  6,  the  criticism  is  pushed 
home  by  laying  stress  on  human  sensitiveness.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  ordain  that  men  should  be  born  into  slavery, 
but  it  is  worse  when  we  remember  that  these  hapless 
creatures  are  sentient.  Surely  it  must  be  a  flaw  in  Nature' s 
handiwork  that  puppets,  driven  hither  and  thither  by 
forces  entirely  independent  of  their  volition,  should  also 
be  capable  of  acute  feeling.  So  in  Act  IV.,  Sc.  5,  the 
significant  admission  is  made  that  "  It  (the  Will)  does  not 
quite  play  the  game."  If  the  Will  must  play  with  puppets, 
then  by  all  means  let  these  puppets  be  merely  mechanical 
toys.  To  use  them  as  pawns,  and  yet  endow  them  with  a 
sensitive  consciousness,  is  to  act  the  part  of  a  bully  liking 
to  inflict  pain.  Wretched  men,  being  helpless,  are  allowed 
to  recognise  their  helplessness  and  thus  endure  a  crueller 
punishment.  The  slave  has  all  the  added  misery  of 
knowing  that  he  is  a  slave.  He  is  in  chains  and  powerless, 
but  not  permitted  to  remain  a  soulless  dupe.  That  is  a 
strong  impeachment  of  the  Immortal  Energy,  which  takes 
the  place  of  God  in  Mr.  Hardy's  system.  The  only  answer 
is  that  it  knows  not  what  it  is  doing. 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS      27 

But  is  it  true  that  it  knows  not  what  it  is  doing  ?  Can- 
not we  detect,  now  and  again,  some  signs  of  actual  male- 
volence ?  We  remember  the  end  of  Tess  of  the  D*  Urber- 
villes,  where  a  reference  is  made  to  the  "  President  of  the 
Immortals."  He  is  said  to  have  "  finished  his  sport  with 
Tess "  when  she  finally  ends  her  unhappy  life  on  the 
scaffold,  just  as  though  he  took  a  pleasure  in  tormenting 
her.  And,  indeed,  throughout  the  novel  we  cannot  but  feel 
that  the  poor  heroine  is  hardly  allowed  a  decent  chance, 
and  that  the  author  piles  suffering  on  suffering  as  though  to 
bring  home  to  our  consciousness  that  Tess  and  the  women 
like  her  are  born  under  an  unlucky  star.  We  revolt  from 
the  picture  as  too  heavily  charged  with  gloom;  we  resent 
the  doom  of  the  heroine  as  unjust  and  unnatural.  If, 
however,  we  take  the  book  at  its  surface  value,  we  cannot 
escape  the  impression  that  there  is  something  very  like 
malice  in  the  ordinances  of  Fate.  This  is  what  the  Spirit 
of  the  Pities  feels  when  in  The  Dynasts  it  is  witnessing  the 
suffering  of  the  poor  mad  English  King  (Act  VI. ,  Sc.  4). 
One  might  almost  think,  it  seems  to  suggest,  that  ironical 
malice  has  presided  over  the  creation  of  the  world,  that 
men  had  been  created  as  a  jest  and  scoffed  at  when  they 
suffer.  But  here  the  answer  comes  at  once,  whether  we 
accept  it  or  no.  The  Will  is  not  conscious;  it  has  no 
intelligence.  It  is  "  unmaliced,  unimpassioned,  nescient 
Will,"  and  therefore  it  is  impossible  that  it  should  enact 
the  role  of  an  lago.  The  One  escapes  criticism  because 
it  is  an  "  It "  and  not  a  "  He." 


§  6 

But  later  on  we  get  a  veritable  cri  du  cosur.  When  the 
unseen  watchers  observe  the  unhappy  king  fall  into  one 
of  his  paroxysms,  the  more  sympathetic  among  them 
cannot  restrain  their  anguish.  And  it  takes  a  significant 
form.  The  Spirit  of  the  Pities  feels  that  the  sorrow  and 
desolation  of  the  world  are  unbearable,  unless  behind  the 
piteous  spectacle  there  is  some  Being  to  whom  humanity 
may  make  appeal.  The  Universe  must  have  some  pre- 
siding Deity — not  an  unconscious  Will,  but  a  conscious 
Person,  warm  with  love  and  tenderness. 

"  Something  within  me  aches  to  pray, 
To  some  great  Heart  to  take  away, 
This  evil  day,  this  evil  day  !  " 


28    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

The  mocking  reply  comes  swift  and  deadly  : 

"  Ha,  ha.     That's  good.     He'll  pray  to  It ! 
But  where  do  Its  compassions  sit, 
And  where  abides  the  heart  of  It  ?  " 

Nevertheless,  the  Spirit  is  not  abashed  or  deterred  : 

"  Mock  on  !  mock  on  !  Yet  I'll  go  pray 
To  some  Great  Heart,  who  haply  may 
Charm  mortal  miseries  away."  l 

For  the  nonce  the  author  of  The  Dynasts  is  on  the  side  of 
the  angels.  In  all  his  references  to  the  mass  of  men,  "  the 
pale,  pathetic  peoples,"  "  the  pale,  panting  multitudes," 
who  are  the  victims  of  despotic  kings  and  the  still  more 
despotic  Immanent  Will,  he  shows  an  unwonted  tender- 
ness, which  goes  beyond  the  limits  of  his  scientific  creed. 
In  the  passage  just  quoted  he  seems  to  be  fully  conscious 
that  the  human  cry  cannot  be  altogether  ignored,  and  that 
it  is  an  ineradicable  instinct  which  has  led  men  of  every 
variety  of  race  and  faith  to  raise  beseeching  hands  to 
"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven." 

Nor  yet  at  the  very  end  of  his  drama  will  he  leave  us 
without  a  gleam  of  hope.  I  have  before  alluded  to  the 
passage  in  which  the  suggestion  is  made  that  Fate  or  Will 
may  develop  Intelligence,  as  in  ^Eschylus  Zeus  developed 
from  a  tyrant  to  a  beneficent  God.  Most  of  the  cruelty 
of  the  world  arises  out  of  the  dissociation  of  primeval 
Energy  from  conscious  intelligence.  If  the  Will  were  only 
aware  of  what  it  was  doing,  it  might  act  from  design  and 
even  grow  to  be  kindly.  At  all  events,  this  is  the  aspira- 
tion of  the  Spirit  of  the  Pities  in  a  choric  song  which, 
probably  not  without  intention,  is  placed  in  the  closing 
scene. 

"  Nay  : — shall  not  its  blindness  break, 
Yea,  must  not  its  heart  awake, 

Promptly  tending 

To  Its  mending 
In  a  genial  germing  purpose,  and  for  loving-kindness'  sake  ?  " 

"  But  a  stirring  thrills  the  air 
Like  to  sounds  of  joyance  there 

That  the  rages 

Of  the  ages 

Shall  be  cancelled,  and  deliverance  offered  from  the  darts  that  were, 
Consciousness  the  Will  informing,  till  it  fashion  all  things  fair  !  "  2 

1  Act  VI.  Sc.  6.  2  After-scene,  Act  VII.  Sc.  9. 


THOMAS   HARDY  AND   AESCHYLUS     29 

§  1 

What  are  we  to  say  of  The  Dynasts  as  a  whole  ?  From 
the  point  of  view  of  drama  it  is  cumbrous  and  top-heavy; 
as  a  study  in  character-drawing  it  is  exceedingly  interesting 
and  suggestive;  as  a  record  of  events  it  is  very  faithful, 
and  keeps  close  to  its  authorities.  But  that,  after  all,  is 
not  what  we  have  been  examining  in  this  essay.  However 
rich  it  may  be  in  eloquent  passages  of  rhetoric,  and  even  in 
single  lines  and  phrases  of  real  poetry,  it  will  have  ulti- 
mately to  be  judged — as,  indeed,  Mr.  Hardy's  shorter 
poems  have  to  be  judged — by  the  philosophy  which  under- 
lies the  whole  structure  :  the  theory  of  the  Universe  and 
of  the  men  and  women  who  have  to  live  in  it.  It  is  possible, 
of  course,  to  cut  out  of  The  Dynasts  all  the  supernatural 
elements,  and  the  action  of  the  personages  and  the  vivid 
reality  of  the  scenes  will,  it  may  be  said,  remain  much  the 
same.  But  it  will  then  cease  to  be  the  piece  of  work  which 
the  author  designed  and  in  which  he  is  interested;  it  will 
cease  to  represent  Mr.  Hardy's  own  mind.  The  Immanent 
Will  is  not  a  conception  which  appears  now  and  again  in 
these  volumes;  it  runs  all  through  them,  it  animates  and 
explains  the  whole  fabric.  What  are  we  to  say  of  it  ? 

For  myself,  I  confess  I  should  like  to  adopt  the  attitude 
of  Epicurus  as  expressed  in  a  well-known  phrase.  He, 
too,  saw  what  we  see  to-day,  that  when  the  gods  disappear 
as  objects  of  worship,  the  human  mind — which  is  credulous 
in  essence  and  must  worship  something — offers  its  incense 
to  Fate  or  Will  or  Chance  as  the  supreme  arbiter  of  the 
world.  Epicurus  said  :  "I  would  rather  believe  in  all 
the  stories  of  the  Gods  than  in  the  Fate  of  the  philosophers." 
He  expressed  himself  sceptically,  of  course.  What  he 
meant  was  that  he  saw  no  reason  in  the  case  of  two  un- 
certainties why  he  should  exchange  one  uncertainty  for 
another.  If  you  can  have  no  certainty  about  the  Gods, 
you  can  have  no  greater  certainty  about  your  abstract 
Fate  or  Will.  Why,  then,  disturb  yourself  by  a  trans- 
ference from  a  fairly  comforting  theory  to  a  distinctly 
uncomfortable  one?  We  must  not,  however,  put  our 
criticism  in  so  ironic  and  sceptical  a  form.  Perhaps  we 
may  put  it  thus  :  The  world,  as  many  metaphysicians  tell 
us,  arises  in  consciousness.  In  other  words,  all  that  we 
can  know  about  the  world  is  due  to,  and  arises  from,  our 
mental  processes  of  interpretation — our  perceptions,  our 


30    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN  INSTANCES 

logical  deductions,  and  our  reasonings.  If  we  like  to 
phrase  it  so,  the  human  mind  creates  the  universe;  for 
only  by  mental  activity  can  the  universe  be  interpreted 
and  explained.  Does  it  not  then  strike  us  as  a  curious 
form  of  suicide  or  self-stultification  that  the  mind  inter- 
preting the  universe  should  interpret  it  as  a  mindless 
universe?  Why  should  we,  who  look  before  and  after, 
who  are  gifted  with  consciousness  and  endowed  with 
reason,  solemnly  fashion  as  the  arbiter  of  our  destiny  an 
abstract  Energy  or  Will  which  has  no  consciousness,  which 
does  not  know  what  it  is  doing,  and  which  acts  absolutely 
irrationally?  Is  not  this — I  will  not  say  to  exchange 
one  uncertainty  for  another — but  to  replace  God  by 
Mumbo- Jumbo  ? 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  present  attitude  of  thoughtful 
men  and  women  is  wholly  averse  from  any  such  mood  of 
pessimism  and  despair.  Its  spirit  is  rather  that  of  Mr. 
Britling  in  Mr.  Wells' s  novel,  who  at  the  end  of  a  number 
of  mental  changes  came  to  the  conclusion  that  our  sons 
— in  the  passionate  ardour  of  their  self-sacrifice — are 
enabling  us  to  find  God.  Let  us  also  add  that  Mr.  Hardy 
himself  has  his  sunnier  moods.  The  characters  of  his 
drama  are  something  more  than  puppets;  and  the  Spirit 
of  the  Pities  is  at  least  as  notable  a  creation  as  the  Spirits 
Sinister  and  Ironic.  Perhaps,  after  the  convulsion  of  an 
appalling  war,  the  wounded  heart  of  man  may  turn  for 
healing  and  guidance — in  all  humility  and  faith — to  "  a 
Divinity  who  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  how  we 
will  " — a,  God  of  Goodness  and  Justice  and  Mercy. 


ARISTOPHANES,  THE  PACIFIST 


ANCIENT  ATHENS  AND  HER  PEACE  PARTY 

WHEN  Athens,  led  by  her  incomparable  statesman 
Pericles,  had  resolved  to  make  war  upon  Sparta,  her 
citizens  were  by  no  means  unanimous  in  favour  of  fighting. 
There  existed  strong  parties  within  the  State  which  were 
especially  hostile  to  Pericles,  and  there  was  an  organised 
peace  faction  which  sought  various  occasions  to  give 
effect  to  its  views.  Moreover,  there  was  a  young,  energetic 
and  virile  writer,  Aristophanes,  who  took  every  occasion 
in  his  power  to  prove  to  his  fellow-citizens  that  their  State 
was  not  developing  in  the  direction  of  its  best  and  highest 
ideals,  but  slowly  deteriorating  from  what  it  had  been 
a  few  years  previously.  The  views  of  Aristophanes  himself 
were  those  of  the  Moderate  Party  in  Athens,  whose  natural 
leader  was  Nicias,  a  party  which  occupied  an  intermediate 
place  between  the  old  thorough-going  aristocrats  whose 
memories  lay  in  the  past,  and  the  ardent  leaders  of  the 
democracy  who  were  innovators,  and,  from  a  Conservative 
point  of  view,  destructive  revolutionaries.  The  great 
merit  of  Pericles  himself  was  that  he,  owing  to  his  extra- 
ordinary strength  of  character,  stood  to  a  large  extent 
above  these  civic  factions.  He  was  technically  the  leader 
of  the  democracy,  for  he  saw  clearly  enough  that  the  only 
possible  line  of  development  for  Athens  was  to  give  more 
and  more  power  to  the  people.  But,  as  Thucydides  tells 
us,  in  name  Athens  might  have  been  a  democracy,  but  in 
reality  it  was  a  beneficent  despotism  wielded  by  Pericles. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  Pericles  who  had  commenced  the 
changes  which  so  afflicted  Aristophanes'  soul,  and  though 
the  dramatist  is  never  extravagantly  violent  in  his  refer- 
ences to  the  great  statesman,  as  he  is  to  his  successors, 
Cleon  and  others,  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  how  alien  in 
thought  and  temper  were  his  political  theories  from  those 
which  had  been  illustrated  by  the  Periclean  reforms. 

31 


32    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Now  it  is  very  remarkable  that  when  Athens  went  to 
war  with  her  great  rival  Sparta  she  should  have  allowed 
her  brilliant  writer  of  comedies  to  abuse  the  existing 
government,  and  to  inculcate  on  every  occasion  the  blessings 
of  peace.  It  says  a  great  deal  for  the  Athenian  democracy 
that  they  could  thus  keep  their  admiration  for  Aristophanes 
absolutely  separate  from  their  political  convictions.  Clearly 
they  did  not  believe  in  literary  censorship,  nor,  indeed,  in 
any  real  censorship  in  political  matters.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  Aristophanes  was  indicted  by  Cleon  on  a  charge  of 
being  unpatriotic,  and  that  this  charge  was  thrown  out 
so  that  it  never  came  for  actual  trial.1  It  was  a  scurrilous 
age,  we  must  remember,  an  age  in  which  public  figures 
could  be  satirised  on  the  stage  with  impunity,  even  under 
their  own  names.  This  was  the  licence  enjoyed  by  the 
older  comedy  —  a  comedy  of  men  like  Eupolis  and  Cratinus 
and  Aristophanes  himself.  At  a  later  period,  when  the 
democracy  was  less  sure  of  itself,  personalities  began  to 
disappear,  but  in  425  B.C.  and  even  before  that  date,  actors 
could  appear  representing  some  foremost  figure  of  the 
time  with  personal  characteristics  duly  made  patent  to 
the  least  observant  eye. 


The  earliest  of  Aristophanes'  comedies  which  we  possess 
is  The  Acharnians,  but  it  was  preceded  by  two  others, 
both  remarkable  in  their  way  as  indicating  the  line  which 
the  poet  intended  to  take.  The  earliest  of  all,  which 
Aristophanes  did  not  produce  in  his  own  name,  was  called 
The  Banqueters,  and  was  a  social  comedy  of  much  the 
same  nature  as  the  subsequent  piece  called  The  Clouds. 
It  was  an  attack  on  the  modern  education.  A  father  has 
two  sons,  one  educated  according  to  the  good  old-fashioned 
way  of  the  country,  the  other  brought  up  at  Athens. 
Naturally  enough,  when  the  Athenian-bred  man  comes 
back  to  his  father  his  manners  and  customs  shock  the  old 
conservative.  He  is  effeminate  in  his  dress,  wearing 
ringlets  —  a  thing  which  Aristophanes  could  not  endure  — 
he  has  learnt  to  drink  and  to  revel,  above  all,  he  has  had 
a  sophistical  education  which  upsets  the  old  notions  of 
right  and  wrong  and  replaces  them  by  such  ideas  as  con- 
vention and  expediency.  For  in  the  happier  age  already 
1  See  Aristoph.,  Ackarn.,  377-82. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE  PACIFIST         33 

gone  by  the  type  of  Athenian  "  who  had  fought  at  Mara- 
thon "  was  a  simple  creature  who  loved  his  farm  in  the 
country,  worshipped  his  old  gods,  thought  that  the  whole 
object  of  education  was  the  formation  of  character,  not 
the  development  of  witty  analysis,  and  believed  in  the 
old  heroic  legends  as  they  were  treated  by  Homer  and 
JEschylus. 

After  The  Banqueters  Aristophanes  brought  out  a  piece 
called  The  Babylonians,  which  dealt  with  a  much  more 
daring  theme.  Here  the  object  of  Aristophanes  was  to 
protest  against  the  method  in  which  Athens  ruled  her 
tributary  States.  Owing  to  the  valour  and  energy  which 
she  had  exhibited  in  the  Persian  Wars,  Athens  was  naturally 
entrusted  with  the  command  of  the  fleet  which  had  to 
protect  the  islanders  of  the  ^Egean  against  foreign  bar- 
barians. First  of  all  the  islands  contributed  actual  ships 
to  the  Athenian  marine;  then  it  was  found  easier  to  con- 
tribute money,  and  a  fixed  assessment  was  made  of  pay- 
ments to  the  common  treasury  held  at  Delos.  It  can 
easily  be  seen  how  Athens,  from  being  one  amongst  a 
number  of  States,  prima  inter  pares,  gradually  slipped  into 
the  position  of  a  paramount  State.  The  tributes  from  the 
islanders  helped  to  make  her  wealthy;  she  became  a 
sovereign,  or  rather  a  despot  city,  having  a  great  con- 
federation under  her  which  she  soon  learnt  to  tax  at  her 
will.  Now  in  Aristophanes'  eyes  such  an  evolution  was 
wholly  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  it  would  seem  that  in 
The  Babylonians  he  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  exac- 
tions on  tributary  States  were  unjust  and  excessive,  and 
that  in  point  of  fact  the  Allies,  who  came  over  to  the  great 
Dionysiac  festival  at  which  this  comedy  was  produced, 
had  very  reasonable  complaints  to  make  against  their 
suzerain.  The  truth,  according  to  the  comic  poet,  was 
that  Athens,  greedy  of  flattery,  listened  only  to  venal 
and  extravagant  orators  who,  praising  her  to  her  heart's 
content,  led  her  along  paths  fatal  to  her  sense  of  justice 
and  her  older  ethical  notions.1  As  a  mere  matter  of 
history,  about  this  time  2  a  very  distinguished  "  modern  " 
orator  called  Gorgias  came  at  the  head  of  an  embassy  from 
Leontini  and  made  an  extraordinary  impression  on  the 
Athenian  populace  by  a  new  kind  of  oratory,  full,  as  we 

1  Aristoph.,  Knights,  1111-19,  Acharn.,  634-5. 

2  B.C.  427.     Cf.  Thuc.,  iii.,  86.     It  is  curious  that  Thucydides  does  not 
mention  Gorgias,  but  Diodorus  does  (xii.  53). 

D 


34    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

should  say,  of  purple  patches.  There  is  little  doubt  that 
Aristophanes  had  this  incident  in  mind  when  he  complained 
that  the  Athenian  Demos  was  so  easily  seduced  by  new- 
fangled eloquence. 

Here,  at  all  events,  was  a  distinct  attack  made  by  a 
daring  young  poet  against  one  of  the  most  powerful  of 
contemporary  statesmen,  Cleon.  Cleon  so  understood  it, 
and  because  the  play  was  exhibited  at  the  great  Dionysia 
when  foreigners  were  present  he  indicted  Aristophanes  for 
an  unpatriotic  insult  to  the  Demos  and  the  Council.  A 
charge  of  treason  seems  to  have  been  preferred,  but  the 
Council  refused  to  entertain  it,  thinking  probably  that  the 
satire  of  a  comic  poet,  even  though  directed  against  public 
measures  of  the  State,  was  an  unfit  subject  for  a  criminal 
proceeding.  When  later  on  Aristophanes  refers  to  this 
matter  in  The  Acharnians  he  refuses  to  adopt  any  apolo- 
getic attitude,  and  claims  that,  so  far  from  being  an  insult, 
his  satire  was  most  beneficial  to  Athens.  There  was 
nothing  really  unpatriotic  in  his  attitude,  he  maintains, 
because,  while  so  far  as  Athenian  public  life  was  con- 
cerned, he  aimed  only  at  what  was  right  and  just,  so  far 
as  his  ideals  went,  he  longed  for  that  union  of  all  Greeks, 
that  Pan-Hellenic  unity,  which  was  in  no  small  measure 
attained  in  the  great  days  of  Marathon  and  Salamis.  At 
the  same  time  he  does  not  hesitate  to  utter  his  own  likes 
and  dislikes.  He  loathes  the  demagogues,  the  informers, 
the  sophists;  he  cannot  endure  the  War  Party  any  more 
than  he  can  tolerate  the  fashion  in  which  Euripides'  plays 
had  lowered  the  old  heroic  tragedy  to  the  common  levels 
of  every-day  life. 

§2 

In  what  has  been  said  we  have  already  anticipated  the 
first  Aristophanic  comedy  which  has  come  down  to  us — 
The  Acharnians.  The  Banqueters  (Aaitafals)  was  brought 
out  in  427  B.C.;  The  Babylonians  (Btifivk&vux)  in  426 
B.C.  The  date  of  The  Acharnians  (A%aavfj<;)  is  425  B.C. 
From  the  beginning  to  end  it  is  a  strong  plea  for  Peace. 
Despite  its  jesting  tone,  its  raillery,  political  and  social, 
and  an  abundance  of  farcical  incidents,  it  has  a  very  serious 
undercurrent — as,  indeed,  was  usually  the  case  with  the 
comedies  of  the  earlier  period  when  men  were  allowed  to 
say  what  they  liked  and  stigmatise  as  they  chose  promi- 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         35 

nent  politicians  and  the  public  policy  of  the  State.  The 
war  had  now  been  going  on  for  five  or  six  years,  and  though 
the  possession  of  sea-power  enabled  the  Athenians  to  raid 
the  Peloponnesian  coasts,  Athens  herself  had  been  devas- 
tated by  the  plague — a  calamity  from  which  she  took  long 
to  recover,  and  which  deprived  her  of  her  most  valuable 
asset,  her  statesman  Pericles.  Moreover,  the  citizens, 
cooped  up  in  the  city,  had  been  forced  to  see  their  land 
despoiled  by  invading  armies  under  the  command  of  the 
Spartan  King.  Boeotia,  too,  had  been  the  scene  of  a  great 
reverse  which  strengthened  the  hands  of  the  peace  party, 
and  probably  gave  an  opportunity  for  Nicias  and  the 
moderates  to  make  themselves  heard  as  against  the 
democrat  Cleon  and  Lamachus,  the  soldier,  whose  business 
was  war.  The  story  of  the  play  is  of  the  simplest. 
Dicaeopolis,  an  honest  countryman,  absolutely  tired  with 
the  war,  determines  to  make  terms  with  Sparta  on  his  own 
account,  and  gets  an  unfortunate  man  who  had  been 
driven  out  of  the  ecclesia  because  he  dared  to  utter  the 
word  "  peace,"  to  go  over  to  the  enemy  and  get  from  him 
samples  of  the  kind  of  pacification  offered — for  ten  years  or 
twenty  or  thirty  as  the  case  may  be.  The  men  of  Acharnae 
are  very  angry  with  him,  because  they  want  compensation 
for  their  destroyed  vineyards.  But  Dicaeopolis  is  quite 
unmoved  by  their  fury,  and  when  the  samples  arrive  he 
is  so  pleased  with  the  flavour  of  a  Thirty  Years'  truce 
that  he  at  once  concludes  a  treaty  direct  with  Sparta  for 
himself  and  his  family.  Poor  Lamachus  is  of  course  left 
out  in  the  cold  :  there  is  no  peace  for  him  any  more  than 
for  the  rest  of  the  Athenian  citizens.  But  Dicseopolis 
enjoys  all  the  blessings  which  the  others  lack  and  holds 
high  festival  as  the  play  ends. 

The  comedy  won  a  first  prize,  although  it  is  not  one  of 
Aristophanes'  best.  But  the  real  interest  lies  not  in  the 
action  of  the  play,  but  in  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
was  brought  out.  What  would  be  the  public  attitude  in 
England  if  some  dramatist  were  to  produce  a  piece  strongly 
recommending  an  immediate  cessation  of  hostilities  and 
pacification  with  Germany?  We  assuredly  should  not  be 
so  tolerant  as  the  Athenian  Demos,  nor  should  we  be  at  all 
inclined  to  admit  the  poet's  plea  that  he  was  really  seeking 
the  good  of  his  country,  and  was  therefore  a  better  patriot 
than  the  advocates  of  war.  The  censor  would  not  permit 
such  a  performance;  it  would  seem  like  treachery  to  the 


36    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN    INSTANCES 

Commonwealth.  How  comes  it  then  that  public  opinion 
in  Athens  allowed  in  time  of  war  a  writer  of  comedies  to 
pose  as  what  we  call  a  Pacifist  ?  The  answer  turns  partly 
on  the  past  history  of  Athens,  partly  on  the  view  taken  of 
the  social  function  of  comedy. 

Let  us  take  the  second  point  first,  because  it  illustrates 
a  deep  divergence  of  view  entirely  separating  a  play  enacted 
at  Athens  from  a  play  in  a  modern  capital.  Every  one  is 
aware  that  there  were  rude  merrymakings  connected  with 
the  Dionysiac  festival,  out  of  which  probably  both  tragedy 
and  comedy  evolved.  But  the  point  about  comedy  is 
that  it  retained  throughout  its  original  free-spoken  and 
somewhat  licentious  character.  Rude  banter,  merciless 
criticism,  flagrant  personalities  marked  all  the  older  comedy 
which  flourished  throughout  the  greater  portion  of  the 
Peloponnesian  War  to  about  404  B.C.  At  the  time  of  the 
festivals  of  the  great  Dionysia  and  the  Lenaea  the  Athenian 
populace  accepted  it  as  their  right  to  see  a  joyous,  irrespon- 
sible, and  also  critical  kind  of  "  revue,"  as  we  might  term 
it,  and  since  it  had  many  links  of  connection  with  their 
religious  worship  they  were  not  likely  to  tolerate  much 
change  in  its  nature  or  its  pretensions.  The  two  charac- 
teristic notes  which  distinguish  ancient  comedy  were,  first, 
the  extraordinary  liberty  allowed  to  the  dramatist  for 
ridiculing  and  criticising  institutions  of  the  State  and 
personages  of  public  importance,  and,  secondly,  an  unmis- 
takable serious  underplay  of  thought,  the  dramatist 
intending  to  show  himself  not  only  as  a  critic,  but  as  also 
a  kind  of  moral  reformer — pointing  out  what,  in  his  opinion, 
were  errors,  drawbacks,  dangers  which  affected  the  com- 
munity at  large  and  required  alteration  and  reform.  Thus 
Athenian  comedy  was  a  thoroughly  democratic  institution, 
and,  indeed,  could  only  have  been  possible  in  a  thorough- 
going democracy.  The  citizens  were  not  at  all  likely  to 
allow  any  one  to  curtail  its  functions,  for  it  held  much  the 
same  relation  to  the  life  and  views  of  the  community  at 
large  as  modern  journalism  does  to  the  body  politic  of 
modern  times.  It  strikes  one  nevertheless  as  somewhat 
paradoxical  that  Aristophanes,  who  disliked  the  democracy, 
should  use  a  great  instrument  of  democratic  criticism  to 
point  out  democratic  errors.  Primarily  the  object  of  the 
poet  was  to  make  people  laugh;  secondarily  it  was  to 
instruct,  to  warn,  to  suggest  certain  morals.  Aristophanes 
was  well  equipped  for  both  functions,  and  hence  he  was 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         37 

allowed  a  freedom  which  was  all  the  more  remarkable 
because  we  know  it  to  have  offended  leaders  of  the 
democracy  like  Cleon  himself. 

But  that  is  not  the  only  ground  on  which  we  can  exonerate 
Aristophanes  from  any  charge  of  unpatriotically  recom- 
mending peace  when  his  own  country  was  at  war.  Great 
changes,  social  and  political,  had  been  going  on  in  Athens 
since  the  times  of  Miltiades  and  Themistocles.  As  long  as 
there  was  a  common  danger  due  to  the  possibility  of  Persian 
invasions  Greece  might  remain  united,  but  when,  owing 
largely  to  the  success  of  her  naval  commanders,  the  peril 
of  the  Mede  was  removed,  Greece  relapsed  into  that  fatal 
division  of  State  against  State,  together  with  all  the 
jealousies  that  naturally  arose  between  communities  at 
imperfect  stages  of  development,  which  we  know  from 
history  to  be  the  main  reason  why  the  prosperity  of  Greece 
herself  was  so  short-lived.  Athens  gradually  increased 
her  power,  to  the  dismay  of  Sparta,  who  thought  the 
supremacy  should  belong  to  herself,  while  gradually,  too, 
the  transference  of  political  authority  from  the  old  aris- 
tocratic families  to  merchants  who  had  made  their  money 
in  trade  and  commerce,  metamorphosed  Athens  herself 
from  a  sort  of  oligarchy  to  a  frankly  democratic  status. 

Thus,  instead  of  leaders  like  Aristides  and  Cimon,  we 
get  Pericles  and  Ephialtes  as  a  first  stage  of  democratic 
development,  and  then  the  newer  kind  of  demagogues, 
such  as  Cleon  and  Hyperbolus.  Of  course,  there  were 
many  conservatives  who  deplored  these  changes.  Some, 
like  Nicias,  felt  them  to  be  inevitable,  and  believed  it  to 
be  their  duty  still  to  offer  their  services  loyally  to  the  State, 
while  others  belonging  to  a  Tory  division  did  not  hesitate 
at  times  to  plot  with  the  enemies  of  Athens,  and  especially 
to  intrigue  against  Pericles,  whom  they  held  to  be  mainly 
responsible  for  the  change.  The  outbreak  of  war  between 
Athens  and  Sparta  gave  them  fresh  grounds  for  their 
indignation,  and  if  the  later  years  of  Pericles'  life  were 
embittered  by  the  constantly  repeated  attacks  of  his 
enemies,  no  small  responsibility  lay  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  old  aristocrats  who  hated  alike  Pericles,  the  war,  and 
the  Athenian  democracy.  Now,  although  Aristophanes 
did  not  belong  altogether  to  the  intractable  section  of 
aristocrats,  he  certainly  had  full  sympathy  with  the 
moderate  party  headed  by  Nicias,  and  seems  honestly 
to  have  believed  that  the  hands  of  the  clock  could  be  put 


38    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

back,  and  Greece  and  Athens  restored  to  the  position  they 
occupied  at  the  time  of  the  Persian  Wars.  He  disliked 
the  idea  of  Athens  as  a  tyrant  State,  governing  depen- 
dencies with  an  iron  hand.  He  hated  the  bitter  hostility 
that  had  arisen  between  Athens  and  Sparta,  and  thought 
that  they  ought  to  be  united  in  a  Pan-Hellenic  community. 
Above  all,  he  loathed  the  vulgarity  of  the  new  democracy, 
its  love  of  talk,  its  greed  for  flattery,  its  passion  for  litiga- 
tion, and  the  low  stamp  of  public  men  which  it  produced. 
Holding  such  convictions  with  intense  earnestness  Aristo- 
phanes had  also  the  great  advantage  of  being  in  a  position, 
as  writer  of  comedies,  to  inculcate  his  opinions  with  the 
greatest  freedom.  Doubtless  many  of  his  contemporaries, 
especially  those  who  were  wounded  by  his  lampoons, 
thought  him  unpatriotic.  But  the  Athenian  Demos  does 
not  seem  to  have  cared  much  whether  he  abused  it  or  not 
so  long  as  he  could  make  it  laugh.  Nor,  indeed,  was  it 
particularly  refined  in  the  choice  of  witticisms  it  preferred. 
There  is  an  immense  amount  of  coarseness  in  the  old  school 
of  comedy,  much  of  which,  no  doubt,  is  to  be  explained 
as  part  of  the  usual  accompaniment  of  Dionysiac  levity. 

§3 

Aristophanes'  fourth  comedy,  The  Knights  (424  B.C.), 
illustrates  still  more  clearly  the  boldness  of  the  satirist 
and  the  absolute  licence  claimed  for  comedy  in  Athens. 
It  is  an  attack — direct,  unsparing  and  bitter — against 
Cleon  in  the  heyday  of  his  prosperity,  and  probably 
because  it  is  a  fearless  challenge  it  was  produced  by  the 
author,  unlike  the  three  which  had  preceded  it,  under 
his  own  name.  In  order  to  understand  it,  however,  we 
must  refer  to  events  which  had  occurred  a  few  months 
before  the  play  appeared,  and  which  must  therefore  have 
been  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  public.  They  form  an 
oddly  interesting  story. 

By  a  curious  concatenation  of  accidents,  Athens  had 
won  one  of  her  greatest  triumphs  in  the  war,  and  Cleon 
had  attained  one  of  the  greatest  successes  in  his  career. 
There  was  a  daring  Athenian  commander,  full  of  initiative 
and  resource,  called  Demosthenes,  who  shared  with  Nicias 
the  respect  of  all  good  citizens.  He  joined,  apparently  in 
an  unofficial  capacity,  an  Athenian  fleet  which  was  sailing 
round  the  Peloponnesian  coast  on  its  way  to  Corey ra. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         39 

Either  because  he  had  a  quick  eye  for  good  defensible 
positions,  or  because  he  had  been  advised  by  some  friendly 
Messenians,  he  fixed  upon  Pylos,  on  the  western  side  of 
the  Peloponnese,  as  a  post  it  might  be  worth  while  to 
fortify.1  In  front  of  it  lay  the  island  Sphacteria,  leaving 
two  channels  of  approach,  north  and  south,  to  the  bay 
which,  in  modern  times,  goes  by  the  name  of  Navarino. 
The  commanders  of  the  expedition  would  not  listen  to 
Demosthenes,  but  fortune  favoured  his  scheme.  Owing 
to  bad  weather  the  fleet  was  unable  to  leave  the  harbour, 
and  the  soldiers  amused  themselves  in  the  interval  by 
building  a  rough  sort  of  fort  on  the  mainland.  When  the 
weather  cleared  the  rest  of  the  fleet  sailed  on  their  way, 
leaving  Demosthenes  with  five  ships  to  carry  on  his  project 
as  he  pleased.  The  Spartans,  meanwhile,  had  received 
news  of  this  affront  to  their  mainland  and  dispatched  some 
of  their  best  troops  to  eject  the  daring  invader.  Demos- 
thenes promptly  sent  two  of  his  five  ships  to  recall  the 
fleet,  and  with  the  remaining  three  succeeded  in  holding 
his  own  until  the  return  of  the  main  Athenian  squadron, 
which  not  only  drove  the  Spartan  ships  out  of  the  harbour, 
but  also  managed  to  isolate  and  surround  a  considerable 
body  of  the  enemy  in  the  island  of  Sphacteria.  Now  the 
troops  imprisoned  in  the  island  consisted  of  the  flower  of 
Spartan  aristocracy  with  their  attendant  Helots,  and  the 
peril  they  were  running  was  so  obvious  and  insistent  that 
the  proud  Lacedaemonian  city  felt  herself  obliged  to  send 
envoys  to  Athens  to  ask  for  terms.  Thanks  to  Cleon, 
always  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  war,  the  terms  were 
rejected,  and  impossible  counter-conditions  demanded, 
which,  as  Cleon  well  knew,  were  bound  to  be  refused. 

The  siege  of  Sphacteria,  however,  dragged  somewhat, 
and  the  Athenians,  growing  impatient,  were  inclined  to 
censure  Cleon  for  making  them  refuse  the  enemy's  offer. 
But  the  demagogue  was  quite  undismayed.  "  If  our 
Generals  were  only  men,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  Nicias, 
"  the  affair  would  have  been  over  long  ago.  If  I  were  in 
command,  I  would  promise  to  bring  the  Spartans  captive 
to  Athens  within  twenty  days."  "  Then  why  don't  you 
take  command  ? "  was  the  quick  Athenian  retort,  and 
Nicias,  making  one  of  the  many  mistakes  in  his  reputedly 
blameless  life,  seconded  the  request  of  the  Assembly  by 
offering  to  resign  his  generalship  in  Cleon' s  favour.  Now 

1  Thuc.,  iv.  3. 


40    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

Cleon  was  not  a  fighter,  he  was  only  a  man  of  words,  and 
would  naturally  decline  the  dangerous  office,  but  feeling 
that  he  was  fairly  trapped  he  made  the  best  of  what 
seemed  a  bad  business  by  asking  that  Demosthenes  should 
be  associated  with  him  in  the  command.  It  is  possible 
also  that  he  knew — what  the  Athenian  Assembly  did  not 
know  1 — that  Demosthenes  had  already  prepared  a  plan 
which  he  was  on  the  point  of  carrying  into  execution. 

Everything  is  fortuitous  and  strange  in  this  curious 
story,  and  not  the  least  of  the  happy  accidents  was  that 
a  mere  chance  had  deprived  the  Spartans  of  their  best 
means  of  resistance.  Sphacteria  was  a  densely  wooded 
island,  in  which  the  attack  would  generally  be  inferior 
to  the  defence.  But  a  party  of  soldiers  had  landed  in 
order  to  cook  a  meal,  and  the  fire,  helped  by  a  strong 
wind,  had  spread  far  and  near,  until  the  woods  were  ablaze 
and  destroyed.  Thus  Demosthenes  saw  that  his  oppor- 
tunity had  "come,  and  Cleon  on  his  arrival  at  Pylos  found 
everything  ready  for  the  assault.  The  island  being  now 
bared  of  its  trees  the  Athenian  soldiers,  mostly  consisting, 
it  would  seem,  of  light  armed  troops,  were  in  a  better 
position  to  attack  the  enemy.  Yet  even  so  the  resistance 
was  desperate.  The  Spartan  hoplites,  although  gradually 
driven  to  the  extremity  of  the  island,  fought  with  all  their 
usual  courage,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  good  advice 
of  a  Messenian  leader  it  is  doubtful  whether  even  now 
Demosthenes  would  have  been  successful.  But  the  Mes- 
senian suggested  to  him  that  there  was  a  practicable  path 
leading  round  the  rear  of  the  Spartan  army,  and  Demos- 
thenes, only  too  glad  to  avail  himself  of  the  chance  thus 
offered,  sent  round  a  small  division  so  as  to  enclose  the 
enemy  between  two  fires.  The  result  was  that  the  Spartans, 
exhausted  by  the  protracted  struggle  of  the  day  and  en- 
feebled by  lack  of  food,  were  forced  to  surrender  after 
having  first  consulted  with  their  comrades  on  the  mainland. 
So  after  all  Cleon' s  "  insane  boast  " — the  epithet  is  Thucy- 
dides'  own — was  fulfilled,  and  the  demagogue  had  the 
immense  satisfaction  of  returning  to  Athens  within  the 
twenty  specified  days,  bringing  his  prisoners  with  him. 
No  event  made  a  greater  stir  throughout  Greece  than  this 
victory  at  Sphacteria,  for  the  tradition  was  that  the  Spartan 
hoplites,  like  the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo,  might  die  but 
would  never  surrender,  and  the  discovery  that  under 
1  Thuc.,  iv.  29. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         41 

severe  pressure  they  could  be  conquered  by  the  Athenians 
was  an  entire  reversal  of  public  opinion.  Cleon  himself 
received  the  honours  usually  accorded  to  a  benefactor  of 
the  State,  being  presented  with  a  golden  crown  and  given 
the  foremost  seat  at  all  public  spectacles.  So  far  as  we 
are  aware,  no  similar  honours  were  granted  to  Demos- 
thenes, although  it  is  clear  from  Thucydides'  narrative 
that  it  was  his  enterprise  and  forethought  which  had 
really  secured  the  victory. 

This  striking  Athenian  triumph  took  place  in  the  late 
summer  or  early  autumn  of  425  B.C.,  and  in  the  following 
February  (424)  Aristophanes'  comedy,  The  Knights,  was 
produced  at  the  Lenaean  festival.  Doubtless  Cleon,  sitting 
in  the  foremost  seat,  was  present  on  the  occasion,  and  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  Demosthenes  also  was  there,  although 
Nicias  had  taken  an  early  opportunity  of  leaving  Athens 
with  a  fleet,  being,  as  was  only  natural,  disgusted  with 
the  turn  which  events  had  taken.  And  it  was  precisely 
at  the  moment  when  Cleon  was  at  the  culmination  of  his 
glory  that  Aristophanes  delivered  his  bitterest  attack  on 
the  successful  demagogue.  Nothing  could  be  more  directly 
incisive  than  the  satire  of  the  play.  The  sovereign  State 
of  Athens,  the  all-powerful  Demos,  is  represented  as  an 
old  man,  almost  in  his  dotage,  who  has  surrendered  himself 
and  his  household  affairs  into  the  hands  of  a  slave.  He 
has,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  three  slaves,  but  only  one  of  these 
is  powerful,  the  one  who  goes  under  the  title  of  Paphlagon, 
and  who  is  in  reality  Cleon.  The  other  two  are  actually 
given  their  proper  names — they  are  Nicias  and  Demos- 
thenes, the  tried  servants  of  Demos,  who  find  themselves 
ousted  and  bullied  by  the  rascally  Paphlagonian  steward. 
In  all  probability  the  masks  which  the  actors  wore  were 
made  up  into  some  easily  recognisable  presentment  of  the 
two  generals,  while  Cleon' s  mask  was  more  disguised. 
Aristophanes,  however,  is  not  going  to  allow  any  one  to 
miss  the  point  of  his  attack,  for  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
a  fellow-slave  the  complaint  that  Paphlagon  had  stolen 
his  cake — a  direct  allusion  to  recent  events  at  Pylos  and 
the  transference  of  the  fruits  of  victory  from  the  real  to 
the  pretended  victor.  Moreover,  the  Knights,  who  form 
the  chorus  of  the  play,  were  known  to  be  hostile  to  Cleon, 
and  had  quite  recently  made  the  demagogue  disgorge  a 
bribe  offered  to  him  by  one  of  the  confederate  States  in 
order  that  he  might  secure  some  remission  in  their  tribute 


42    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

to  Athens.1  Every  point  must  have  told  in  this  vigorous 
drama.  Nicias  and  Demosthenes,  putting  their  heads 
together,  discover  that  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of  their 
pestilent  fellow-slave  is  to  secure  some  rival  with  a  louder 
voice,  a  larger  vocabulary  of  abuse,  and  a  more  abundant 
set  of  oracles  to  produce  at  critical  moments,  than  Cleon. 
The  last  is  a  curious  personal  touch  which  must  refer  to 
Cleon' s  style  of  oratory.  It  was  probably  his  habit  to 
fortify  his  opinions  and  judgments  by  quoting  on  his  side 
oracular  utterances,  supposed  to  support  his  policy.  For- 
tunately for  the  two  conspirators,  a  leather-lunged  sausage- 
seller  comes  on  the  scene,  who  is  exactly  the  man  they 
require  for  their  purpose.  The  sausage-seller  defeats 
Cleon  every  time,  and  quickly  supplants  him  in  his 
master's  favour.  And  Demos  himself,  rescued  from  his 
tyrant,  at  once  recovers  his  youth  and  regains  his  normal 
reasonableness. 

We  can  imagine  the  feelings  of  the  real  Cleon,  who  began 
by  being  a  seller  of  leather,  when  he  not  only  saw  himself 
travestied  as  a  Paphlagonian  slave,  but  witnessed  his 
oratorical  defeat  by  a  vulgar  braggart,  seller  of  black- 
puddings,  who  could  beat  him  at  his  own  game.  But 
when  we  reflect  that  so  daring  a  play,  with  so  stinging  a 
caricature  of  a  prominent  politician,  could  be  enacted 
amidst  the  laughter  of  an  Athenian  crowd,  we  are  forced, 
I  think,  to  the  conclusion  that  though  Cleon  might  wield 
considerable  power,  he  had  by  no  means  won  either  the 
respect  or  the  affection  of  his  fellow-citizens.  In  other 
words,  Mitford  and  Thirlwall  are  more  to  be  trusted  when 
they  follow  the  views  of  Thucydides  and  Aristophanes 
in  dealing  with  these  events,  than  Grote,  who  in  his  zealous 
defence  of  democratical  principles  stretches  too  many 
points  in  favour  of  the  ardent  demagogue  Cleon. 

§  4 

Meanwhile  the  war  went  on  with  varying  fortunes. 
Aristophanes,  in  the  year  after  the  production  of  The 
Knights,  brought  out  The  Clouds  (423  B.C.)  and  The  Wasps 
(422  B.C.).  Neither  of  these  is  immediately  concerned  with 
the  course  of  hostilities.  The  first  is  an  attack  on  the 
modern  education  prevalent  in  Athens,  and  is  a  continua- 
tion, therefore,  of  the  main  thesis  of  The  Banqueters. 
1  Aristoph.,  Acharn.,  6. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE  PACIFIST         43 

Socrates,  on  whom  the  attack  principally  falls,  is  taken 
as  the  type  of  such  different  classes  of  teachers  and  pro- 
fessors as  the  Physical  Philosophers — like  Anaxagoras,  for 
example — and  the  sophistical  instructors  in  rhetoric,  such 
as  Protagoras  and  Prodicus.  The  portrait  which  Aristo- 
phanes draws  has  little  or  no  resemblance  to  the  historic 
Socrates,  who  practically  confined  his  teaching  to  ethics. 
The  second  comedy,  The  Wasps,  satirises  the  Athenian 
fondness  for  litigation,  and  is  therefore  an  attack  on  the 
paid  dikasteries  or  jury-courts.  Both  plays  have  their 
importance,  although  not  in  the  connection  immediately 
before  us.  I  pass  to  the  comedy  entitled,  with  Aristo- 
phanes' customary  boldness,  The  Peace,  which  was  actually 
prophetic,  inasmuch  as  it  appeared  only  a  month  or  so 
before  a  treaty  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities  for  fifty  years 
was  ratified. 

The  date  of  the  comedy  is  421  B.C.,  and  it  was  enacted 
at  the  Great  Dionysia,  at  which  representatives  of  the 
Allies  were  present — a  circumstance  which  would  make 
its  bold  advocacy  of  peace  with  Sparta  all  the  more  remark- 
able. Doubtless  pacifist  tendencies  were  prevalent  at  the 
time.  The  various  States  involved  were  sick  of  the  war. 
Athens  had  not  succeeded  so  well  as  she  had  hoped  after 
the  brilliant  coup  at  Sphacteria  :  Sparta,  despite  some 
excellent  victories  due  to  Brasidas,  was  anxious  to  recover 
the  well-born  prisoners  who  were  being  kept  as  hostages 
by  the  rival  city.  Brasidas  was  indeed  one  of  the  finest 
generals  whom  Sparta  produced,  and  his  assaults  on 
Athenian  possessions  in  Thrace  made  in  the  teeth  of 
Athenian  naval  supremacy  proved  how  vulnerable  was 
that  maritime  Empire  which  had  hitherto  carried  every- 
thing before  it  on  the  sea.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that 
Cleon,  who  was  sent  out  to  oppose  him,  was  no  match 
for  the  resourceful  Spartan,  whom  Thucydides,  with  a 
touch  of  Attic  scorn  for  a  tongue-tied  race,  described  as 
"  not  a  bad  speaker  for  a  Lacedaemonian."  But  it  so 
chanced  that  in  some  rough  and  disordered  fighting  near 
Amphipolis  both  Cleon  and  Brasidas  were  killed.  The 
death  of  the  two  prominent  advocates  of  war,  representing 
the  martial  party  in  Athens  and  Sparta  respectively,  gave 
an  opportunity  for  peace  negotiations,  of  which  Nicias 
was  quick  to  avail  himself,  and  the  fifty-year  truce  which 
followed  included  a  definite  alliance  between  the  two 
combatants.  Greece,  although,  perhaps,  a  little  sceptical 


44    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

of  the  future,  was  for  the  time,  at  all  events,  able  to  breathe 
again. 

The  Peace  is  certainly  not  the  happiest  of  Aristophanes' 
efforts,  but  at  least  it  put  the  situation  plainly  enough 
before  the  audience,  and  carried  on  the  purpose  of  the 
earlier  comedy,  The  Acharnians.  The  hero  is  Trygaeus, 
an  unhappy  Athenian,  who  determines  to  scale  the  heights 
of  heaven  on  the  back  of  a  beetle.  Arrived  at  the  celestial 
heights  he  discovers  the  gods  engaged  in  pounding  the 
Greek  States  in  a  mortar.  He  intends  to  stop  this  at  all 
hazards,  and  therefore  releases  from  the  well  in  which 
she  has  been  imprisoned  the  Goddess  Peace.  Thereupon 
the  gods  discard  their  pestle  and  mortar,  and  Trygseus, 
marrying  one  of  Peace's  handmaids,  brings  her  with  him 
home.  It  must  have  given  sincere  pleasure  to  Aristo- 
phanes to  find  that  the  object  which  he  had  been  pursuing 
for  some  years  past  was  now  about  to  be  realised,  and  that 
his  satiric  dramas  had  not  failed  in  their  mission. 


ARISTOPHANES,    THE    PACIFIST 
II 

§  1 

THE  earlier  period  of  Aristophanes'  plays  ends  with  the 
"  Peace  "  of  421  B.C.  After  that  date  there  is  a  cessation 
of  activity  on  the  part  of  the  dramatist,  an  interval  of  six 
years;  and  when  Aristophanes  once  more  steps  upon  the 
stage  his  plays  exhibit^  a  slightly  different  tendency.  The 
earlier,  as  we  have  found,  are  very  combative  and  satirical, 
and  are  animated  throughout  not  only  by  a  dislike  of  the 
war  party,  but  also  by  a  bitter  hostility  against  Cleon  as 
leading  statesman  of  Athens.  They  are,  as  we  should 
term  them,  distinctly  topical  plays.  After  the  peace  of 
Nicias  they  became  by  no  means  so  personal  or  so  pug- 
nacious. For  instance,  The  Birds — a  comedy  which  was 
enacted  in  Athens  in  414  B.C. — is  in  great  measure  an  idyllic 
piece,  as  though  the  satirist  deliberately  sought  to  draw 
the  attention  of  his  audience  away  from  the  actual  circum- 
stances of  the  moment  to  a  purely  imaginative  realm. 
We  are  not,  of  course,  aware  why  Aristophanes  was  silent 
for  six  years.  Doubtless  he  was  not  inactive,  but  perhaps 
he  might  have  thought  that,  after  the  conclusion  of  a 
covenant  between  Athens  and  Sparta,  there  was  a  real 
chance  of  the  spread  of  those  principles  which  he  had 
himself  espoused — under  the  assumption  that  the  moderate 
party  had  gained  the  victory  in  Athens  and  that  no 
immediate  disturbance  of  the  peace  was  to  be  expected. 
If  such  were  his  thoughts,  he  was  completely  deceived. 
But  there  also  might  have  been  other  reasons,  and  not 
least  the  changes  in  the  attitude  of  the  public  towards 
productions  of  comedy.  For  we  know  that  when,  in 
414  B.C.,  The  Birds  was  produced,  there  had  come  into 
existence  a  new  law,  said  to  be  introduced  by  a  certain 
Syracosius,  prohibiting  personal  attacks  on  prominent 
individuals  in  the  State.  His  fellow-dramatists,  Ameipsias 

45 


46    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

and  Phrynichus,  seem  to  have  grumbled  at  the  restriction 
placed  on  their  activity  as  satirists.  Aristophanes  chose 
the  wiser  part  and  altered  the  character  of  comedy  in  order 
to  make  it  more  fantastic  and  less  topical,  and  to  give  the 
Athenians  a  flight  of  fancy  rather  than  a  diatribe  on 
contemporary  events. 

Athens  was  rarely  in  lack  of  great  men  during  the 
Peloponnesian  War.  She  commenced  it  under  the  control 
of  one  of  the  greatest  of  her  citizens,  Pericles,  and  though 
her  prestige  as  a  State  was  decidedly  lowered  by  a  man 
like  Cleon,  her  generals,  Nicias  and  especially  Demos- 
thenes, were  efficient  and,  on  the  whole,  fairly  successful. 
And  then,  after  Cleon' s  death,  there  arose  into  power  one 
of  the  greatest  characters  in  Athenian  history — Alcibiades 
— whose  growing  reputation  fills  all  the  interval  from  the 
peace  of  Nicias  to  the  Sicilian  expedition.  Alcibiades  was 
a  man  whose  versatile  gifts  and  always  juvenile  audacity 
can  very  easily  be  misinterpreted,  especially  if  we  look  only 
at  the  character  of  the  influence  he  exercised  over  Athens. 
There  is  no  doubt  whatsoever  that  Athens  would  have  been 
safer  in  the  hands  of  a  staid  and  moderate  man,  less  brilliant 
and  less  able,  but  possessed  of  those  qualities  of  good  sense 
and  self-control  which  would  have  enabled  him  to  guide 
his  city  with  reasonable  safety-  through  a  period  of  crisis. 
For  in  a  certain  definite  fashion  Alcibiades  was  the  ruin 
of  Athens.  He  led  her  along  paths  which  were  exceedingly 
dangerous  for  a  city  in  her  circumstances;  and  he  aban- 
doned her  rather  than  undergo  a  charge  of  impiety  which, 
perhaps,  he  felt  himself  unable  to  meet.  He  became  a 
traitor  when  he  betrayed  her  to  Sparta,  and  gave  advice 
to  the  enemy  which  enabled  him  to  win  success  after 
success.  Only  towards  the  close  of  his  career  did  he  manage 
to  atone  for  his  delinquencies  when,  through  the  latest 
period  of  the  Peloponnesian  War,  he  did  what  he  could 
to  enable  Athens  to  carry  on  her  desperate  struggle  with 
diminished  armies  against  a  circle  of  foes. 

There  is  one  characteristic  about  prominent  Greeks 
which  always  strikes  one  with  amazement.  They  seem  to 
be  inspired  with  the  most  burning  patriotism,  but  directly 
anything  goes  wrong,  if  they  fall  out  of  favour,  they  do 
not  hesitate  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  foes.  This  had  been  the 
case  with  Themistocles  and  a  good  many  others  of  less 
importance.  It  was  also  the  case  with  Alcibiades.  One 
significant  exception  is  furnished  by  the  historian  Thucy- 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         47 

dides.  He  had  failed  to  arrest  the  progress  of  Brasidas 
in  Thrace  and  had  lost  his  command.  But  the  only  form 
which  his  revenge  took  was  to  write  a  most  dispassionate 
account  of  the  whole  war,  in  which  he  does  ample  justice 
to  his  native  city  and  is  proudly  silent  on  the  subject  of 
his  own  disgrace.  Most  of  the  Greek  statesmen  were  not 
formed  in  this  mould.  If  we  give  the  best  interpretation 
to  their  conduct  we  shall  have  to  say  that  they  were  so 
enamoured  of  their  native  State  that  they  could  not  bear 
for  a  moment  the  thought  that  she  was  listening  to 
counsels  other  than  their  own.  From  this  point  of  view 
they  would  act  like  discarded  lovers,  with  a  bitterness  as 
acute  as  their  original  passion.  For  all  practical  purposes, 
however,  they  have  little  enough  excuse  for  their  perfidy, 
and  we  can  hardly  help  judging  them  as  we  should  all 
traitors  who  allow  personal  feelings  to  overpower  their 
sense  of  patriotic  duty. 

§  2 

Alcibiades  was  a  young  aristocrat.  He  had  some  family 
connection  with  Pericles.  He  was  by  general  consent  the 
most  brilliant  young  Athenian  of  his  day,  headstrong, 
violent,  ambitious,  lavish  in  personal  expenditure,  prodigal 
in  the  arts  of  the  demagogue,  but  with  apparently  a  real 
sense  of  the  power  and  dignity  of  Athens  and  a  genuine 
desire  to  see  her  flourish.  But  the  thought  of  an  Athenian 
triumph  in  which  he  did  not  share  was  gall  and  bitterness 
to  him.  For  to  his  eager  and  wide-ranging  intelligence, 
if  Athens  was  to  become  the  mistress  of  the  Hellenic  world 
he  must  be  the  chief  man  of  Athens,  an  acknowledged 
despot  after  the  fashion  of  the  older  tyrants,  whose  word 
was  law.  His  family  had  some  Laconian  associations, 
but  when  Alcibiades,  then  quite  a  young  man,  made  over- 
tures to  Sparta  that  he  should  represent  her  and  her  interests 
in  Athens,  the  Spartans  very  naturally  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  was  too  young  and  too  untrustworthy  to 
discharge  such  important  functions.  This  was  an  insult 
which  Alcibiades  never  forgave,  and  from  this  moment  he 
took  every  opportunity  of  embroiling  the  relations  between 
the  two  leading  States  in  Greece. 

Rapidly  it  was  discovered  that  the  peace  of  Nicias  was 
no  peace ;  that  it  only  brought  at  most  a  temporary  cessa- 
tion from  hostilities.  Intrigues  began  and  multiplied, 


48    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

in  which  Argos  and  the  Peloponnese  were  largely  involved, 
and  though  Athens  and  Sparta  were  nominally  allies  this 
did  not  prevent  them  from  working  with  no  small  amount 
of  energy  to  do  each  other  the  utmost  injury  in  their 
power.  And  through  it  all  Alcibiades  was  the  leading 
influence,  or  perhaps  rather  the  baleful  star.  In  his  wide 
and  lofty  imagination  the  time  had  now  come  for  a  new 
policy,  a  policy  as  far  removed  from  the  sage  restraint 
imposed  by  Pericles  as  its  author,  Alcibiades,  was  from  the 
character  of  his  grave  and  eminent  kinsman.  The  new 
policy  was,  indeed,  startling  in  its  audacity.  Athens  was 
to  extend  her  conquests  in  the  west,  Sicily  might  be  sub- 
dued, Carthage  might  be  attacked,  the  whole  coast-line 
of  the  Mediterranean,  as  far  as  the  Pillars  of  Hercules, 
might  become  an  Athenian  Sea;  and  then,  possessed  of 
this  world  dominion,  Athens  might  bring  a  crushing  fleet 
to  surround  the  whole  of  the  Peloponnese,  starve  Sparta 
into  submission,  and  become  in  deed  and  in  name  the 
Imperial  power  of  the  Greek  world.1  Naturally  a  moderate 
man  like  Nicias  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  such 
delirious  fancies,  and  it  looked  for  some  time  as  if  the  old 
weapon  of  ostracism  was  to  be  called  in  to  settle  the 
differences  between  Alcibiades  and  Nicias,  in  which  case 
one  of  them  would  have  been  forced  to  retire  from  active 
service  for  the  State.  But  at  the  last  moment  popular 
criticism  was  turned  upon  a  comparative  nonentity, 
Hyperbolus.  Both  parties  united  their  forces  against  this 
unpopular  specimen  of  demagogue,  and  Hyperbolus  was 
driven  into  exile.  In  many  ways  it  was  an  unfortunate 
decision,  for  it  left  the  city  a  prey  to  contending  factions. 
In  the  older  days  Athens  would  have  freed  herself  by  a 
decisive  vote;  now  she  accepted  a  kind  of  compromise 
which  by  no  means  cured  the  evils  to  be  feared  from  two 
bitterly  opposed  parties  in  the  State. 

The  chance  for  which  Alcibiades  had  been  looking 
forward  duly  arrived.  Envoys  from  Sicily  came  to  implore 
the  help  of  Athens  in  aid  of  Egesta  against  a  rival  city, 
Selinus,  which  was  being  helped  by  Syracuse.  By  granting 
the  prayer  of  the  enyoys  from  Egesta,  by  sending  some 
assistance  to  them  in  their  need,  the  Athenians  would  at 
once  be  involved  in  Sicilian  affairs  and  find  admirable 
chances  for  pushing  their  vague  and  lofty  dreams  of  con- 
quest. Naturally,  therefore,  Alcibiades  gave  strenuous 
1  Thuc.,  vi.  15,  vi.  90. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE  PACIFIST         49 

support  to  these  delegates  from  Sicily  and  pointed  out  to 
his  fellow-citizens  at  home  how  great  would  be  the  advan- 
tage if  Athens,  using  her  maritime  power,  were  to  extend 
her  empire  westward.  That  empire  had,  indeed,  become 
a  burden  heavy  to  be  borne  by  the  islanders  and  the  allies. 
The  tribute  from  those  who  were  supposed  to  be  associates, 
but  were  in  reality  dependents,  had  steadily  grown  from 
a  contribution  of  600  talents  to  more  than  double  that  sum, 
and  there  was  much  ground  for  complaint  as  to  the  methods 
employed  by  a  city  who  interpreted  her  Imperial  responsi- 
bilities in  the  light  of  a  despotic  ambition.  There  were 
many  in  Athens  herself  who  deplored  the  changes  which 
had  come  over  their  position,  and  amongst  them  Nicias, 
of  course,  urged  those  principles  of  moderation  which 
characterised  him  throughout  his  career.  When  his  country- 
men voted  that  an  expedition  should  be  sent  out  to  Sicily, 
Nicias  insisted  that  the  whole  discussion  should  be  re- 
opened on  the  following  day.  When  even  so  the  decision 
went  against  him,  he  sought  to  dissuade  the  Athenians  by 
demanding  a  far  larger  force,  both  of  men  and  ships,  than 
had  originally  been  determined.  But  the  only  result  of 
his  dilatory  policy  was  that  the  Athenians  granted  his 
requests,  and,  in  accordance  with  their  habitual  method 
of  balancing  impetuosity  by  caution,  appointed  both 
Alcibiades  and  Nicias  to  the  command  of  the  expedition. 
They  added  a  third  commander  in  the  person  of  Lamachus, 
a  brave  and  vigorous  soldier,  whose  main  business  was  the 
actual  conduct  of  military  operations,  and  who  knew  and 
cared  nothing  about  questions  of  Imperial  pulicy. 

Unfortunately,  just  before  the  expedition  sailed  an 
unparalleled  event  occurred  in  Athens.  In  a  single  night 
the  numerous  marble  Hermae,  rectangular  statues  to 
Hermes,  which  could  be  seen  in  the  market-place  and  were 
erected  in  front  of  the  citizens'  houses,  and  therefore 
formed  one  of  the  most  familiar  sights  in  Athens,  were 
broken  and  mutilated  and  the  streets  littered  with  frag- 
ments. Such  an  event  was  all  the  more  mysterious 
because  it  could  not  have  been  done  by  a  drunken  band 
of  revellers.  It  must  have  involved  a  large  body  of  con- 
spirators. Great  was  the  indignation  which  prevailed  at 
this  hideous  sacrilege,  and  Alcibiades  himself,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  was  considered  to  be  implicated,  mainly  on  the 
ground  of  the  reckless  character  of  his  customary  associates, 
In  the  general  uncertainty  every  citizen  looked  at  his 


50    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

neighbour  with  suspicion  and  dislike.  Some  sort  of  revolu- 
tion was  supposed  to  be  imminent,  and  the  absence  of 
definite  knowledge  only  increased  the  universal  terror.  It 
was  a  very  ominous  incident  to  occur  just  on  the  eve  of 
a  great  adventure,  and  Alcibiades  felt  it  so  keenly  that 
he  demanded  an  instantaneous  inquiry,  proposing  himself 
ready  and  anxious  to  meet  all  charges  levelled  against  him. 
But  the  Athenians  would  not  hear  of  anything  which  could 
possibly  delay  the  sailing  of  their  ships.  They  allowed 
Alcibiades  to  start,  still  holding  his  office  of  general,  and 
only  required  his  future  attendance  when  the  formal 
inquiry  should  be  opened.  It  was  in  every  way  an  unfor- 
tunate position,  for  it  could  not  but  place  their  general 
under  the  stigma  of  an  unproved  crime,  a  position  which 
undermined  his  authority  with  the  allies  and  caused  no 
little  discontent  in  both  army  and  navy.  The  results  were 
even  more  disastrous  a  few  weeks  later,  for,  while  the 
generals  were  concerting  their  measures  in  Sicily  itself, 
the  Salaminia,  or  Sacred  Vessel,  was  sent  out  from  Athens 
to  bring  back  Alcibiades  to  meet  his  accusers.  So  proud 
and  fiery  a  character  could  hardly  be  expected  to  undergo 
the  humiliation  of  a  trial  in  such  exceptional  circumstances, 
and  Alcibiades,  perhaps  in  collusion  with  the  officers  of 
the  Salaminia,  escaped  on  his  way  back  to  Athens  and 
took  refuge  in  the  Peloponnese.  There,  in  order  to  wreak 
his  revenge  on  his  faithless  native  city,  he  stirred  up  the 
Spartans  to  join  in  the  fighting  in  Sicily,  and,  above  all, 
induced  them  to  send  out  one  of  their  most  capable 
generals,  Gylippus,  whose  arrival  changed  the  whole 
fortunes  of  the  day. 

§  3 

Aristophanes'  comedy,  The  Birds,  is  capable  of  several 
interpretations.1  It  is  a  romance,  a  flight  of  fancy,  a 
poetical  piece  of  nonsense  :  but  it  may  also  be  an  allegory 
and  contain  many  deep  meanings,  pertinent  to  the  time 
(414  B.C.)  at  which  it  was  produced  in  Athens.  The  story 
is  quite  fantastic,  but  it  is  carried  out  with  a  wealth  of 
imaginative  detail  and  adorned  with  several  beautiful 
lyrics  and  odes  which  make  it  one  of  the  most  fascinating 

1  See  introduction  to  Aristophanes'  Birds,  by  Benjamin  Bickley  Rogers 
(Bell  &  Sons),  p.  xv.  Mr.  Rogers'  edition  of  Aristophanes  (including  his 
translations)  are  of  the  utmost  value  to  the  student. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         51 

of  the  author's  plays.  There  are  two  Athenians,  Peis- 
thetserus  and  Euelpides,  who  are  disgusted  with  actual 
conditions  and  determine  to  strike  out  a  new  idea.  They 
persuade  the  birds — birds  are  primeval  things,  belonging 
to  the  early  stages  of  animate  life  on  the  globe — to  build 
a  city  half-way  between  heaven  and  earth.  It  is  called 
NetpekoxoKKvyia,  "  Cloud-cuckoo-town."  The  plan  suc- 
ceeds so  well  that  the  new  city  becomes  a  menace  to 
heaven,  for  it  prevents  the  gods  from  enjoying  the  sacrifices 
which  come  up  to  them  from  below  and  all  the  rich  savours 
with  which  humanity  is  wont  to  propitiate  Deity.  So  the 
gods,  deprived  of  the  usual  offerings,  are  forced  to  send 
envoys  to  treat  with  the  birds  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the 
untoward  menace  to  their  felicity.  Peisthetaerus,  the 
ringleader  in  the  happy  enterprise,  receives  the  hand  of 
Basileia,  the  daughter  of  Zeus,  and  all  ends  well. 

An  obvious  interpretation  makes  the  play  a  parable, 
somehow  dealing  with  Alcibiades  and  the  Sicilian  Expedi- 
tion. Fantastic  schemes  were  no  doubt  in  the  air,  and  the 
Athenian  mind  was  excited  by  vast  possibilities  of  empire. 
But  directly  we  try  to  apply  the  allegory  it  fails  us.  For 
if  the  birds  represent  the  excitable  and  volatile  Athenians, 
then  the  gods  whom  they  beleaguer  must  represent  the 
Spartans,  and  that  does  not  seem  a  likely  supposition. 
Moreover,  Peisthetaerus  and  Euelpides  do  not  in  any 
fashion — except  for  their  enterprising  ardour — resemble 
Alcibiades.  Or  shall  we  say  that  the  piece  is  a  protest 
against  superstition  and  religious  fanaticism?  We  know 
that  the  mutilation  of  the  Hermae,  with  which  Alcibiades 
was  supposed  to  be  concerned,  produced  an  almost  in- 
describable commotion  and  much  underground  activity 
on  the  part  of  informers  and  spies.  It  also  was  the  main 
cause  why  Alcibiades  was  recalled  from  Sicily  and  thus 
indirectly  invalidated  the  chances  of  success.  But  it  is 
difficult  to  see  any  vital  connection  between  Athenian 
fanaticism  and  the  story  of  Aristophanes'  play  unless  we 
force  an  unreal  analogy  between  Peisthetaerus,  who  defies 
the  gods  and  succeeds,  and  the  ordinary  Athenian,  who 
is  a  prey  to  mystical  terrors. 

Probably  there  are  two  different  trains  of  thought 
recognisable  in  The  Birds.  There  is  undoubtedly  a  satirical 
element,  for  Aristophanes  seems  to  be  criticising  and  laugh* 
ing  at  the  rash  caprices  of  his  countrymen,  which  were 
often  allowed  to  override  the  dictates  of  law  and  order. 


52    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

And  the  play  seems,  too,  to  contain  or  suggest  the  wistful 
dreams  of  the  idealist  who,  instead  of  turning  his  thoughts 
as  usual  to  an  Athens  of  the  past,  prefers  for  the  nonce  to 
sketch  the  outlines  of  a  new  and  wonderful  Athens,  a 
city  in  the  clouds  which  shall  be  both  pure  and  prosperous. 
Very  likely,  however,  it  only  argues  dull  brains  to  try  to 
explain  an  airy  exercise  of  the  imagination,  a  piece  of 
fantasy  and  romance  which  defies  analysis  and  is  its  own 
best  justification.  The  lyrical  motive  was  always  strong 
in  Aristophanes,  and  the  outpouring  of  song  and  melody 
in  the  chants  of  the  birds  lifts  the  play  far  above  the 
prosaic  level  of  mere  reason  or  the  debates  of  contemporary 
politics. 

§4 

The  interval  between  the  production  of  The  Birds  and 
that  of  Lysistrata  represents  the  culmination  of  the  great 
tragedy  of  the  Sicilian  Expedition.  In  the  autumn  of 
413  B.C.  rumours  began  to  arrive  at  Athens  of  the  appalling 
catastrophe  that  had  befallen  not  only  the  original  expedi- 
tion under  Nicias,  but  the  subsequent  one  which  had  been 
sent  out  under  the  command  of  Demosthenes.  The  details 
of  the  story  as  they  are  narrated  to  us  by  Thucydides 
would  carry  us  too  far  from  our  subject.  In  themselves 
they  form  a  most  arresting  story,  a  story  in  which  Fate 
seems  to  have  decided  everything  against  the  luckless 
Athenians.  But,  of  course,  when  we  look  at  it  more  closely 
the  tragedy  resolves  itself  into  the  failure  of  individuals, 
combined,  perhaps,  with  the  original  impossibility  of  the 
whole  scheme.  In  Athens  herself  probably  little  was  known 
of  the  real  conditions  of  Sicily,  nor  in  her  confidence  in 
her  fleet  was  there  any  suspicion  that  the  considerable 
distance  between  the  actual  scene  of  war  and  the  bases 
of  supply  was  bound  to  be  prejudicial  to  chances  of  victory. 
Perhaps  Alcibiades  might  have  carried  the  scheme  through, 
but,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  been  transformed  from  an 
Athenian  general  into  an  enemy  of  his  native  city,  and  all 
his  talents,  which  without  doubt  made  him  the  most  con- 
spicuous man  in  the  Greek  world,  were  employed  to  help 
the  cause  of  Sparta.  It  was,  as  we  have  seen,  owing  to 
the  advice  of  Alcibiades  that  the  Lacedaemonians  sent 
Gylippus  to  Syracuse,  who,  such  is  the  magnetism  of  a 
single  great  personality,  transformed  the  whole  situation. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         53 

When  we  have  to  reckon  up  the  faults  of  individuals,  the 
glaring  incompetence  of  Nicias  must  be  placed  on  the 
highest  plane  ;  and  it  provokes  no  little  wonder  that  Athens 
herself  refused  to  mistrust  him,  declined  to  recall  him  when 
he  wanted  to  be  recalled,  and  persisted  in  thinking  that 
he  was  not  only  a  trustworthy,  but  an  energetic  com- 
mander. It  was  Nicias'  fatal  inertia  which  made  Athenian 
success  impossible.  To  this  we  must  add  the  Athenian 
general's  insane  superstition.  At  the  critical  moment  of 
his  fate  he  refused  to  move  the  expeditionary  force  out 
of  the  great  harbour  of  Syracuse  owing  to  the  fears  excited 
by  an  eclipse.  Delay,  procrastination,  feebleness,  these 
were  the  chief  marks  of  Nicias'  leadership,  and  all  we  can 
say  of  him  is  that,  at  the  end,  despite  illness  and  despair, 
he  showed  the  virtues  of  a  courageous  man.  Unfortun- 
ately, he  involved  in  his  own  downfall  the  ruin  of  a  much 
more  efficient  general  than  he  was  —  Demosthenes.  Left 
to  his  own  resources,  Demosthenes  would  at  least  have 
been  able  to  carry  away  in  safety  the  remnants  of  the 
expedition,  if  he  had  not  succeeded  in  some  brilliant  attack 
upon  the  foe.  But,  alas  !  Nicias'  counsels  were  all  against 
activity  and  daring,  and  the  melancholy  result  was  that, 
after  the  destruction  of  their  fleet,  the  Athenian  armies, 
trying  to  escape  inland,  were  overwhelmed  and  forced  to 
surrender.  Both  Nicias  and  Demosthenes  were  put  to 
death  while  the  Athenian  prisoners  were  sent  to  work  as 
underground  slaves  in  Syracusan  stone-quarries. 


It  was  the  most  overwhelming  catastrophe  which  had 
ever  occurred  in  Greek  history.  The  flower  of  the  Athenian 
fleet  and  armies,  the  most  splendid  armaments  that  had 
ever  left  an  Hellenic  harbour,  had  been  annihilated.  Political 
and  military  leaders  alike  had  perished.  The  ruin  was  so 
complete,  so  totally  unexpected,  that  at  first  no  one  in 
Athens  could  believe  it.  Slowly  the  truth  filtered  through- 
out the  population,  and  Athens  woke  from  her  dream  of 
empire  to  find  herself  confronted  by  imminent  extinction. 
The  triremes  which  were  left  were  few  and  by  no  means 
serviceable.  Little  enough  money  remained  to  equip  new 
ones.  The  allies  were  everywhere  breaking  away,  rejoicing 
in  the  opportunity  to  break  a  yoke  that  had  become  hateful 
to  them.  No  city  ever  had  so  tremendous  a  task  as  Athens 


54    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

saw  before  her  eyes  at  the  opening  of  412  B.C.  Hopeless 
and  demoralised  though  they  were,  the  citizens  set  them- 
selves to  do  all  that  was  possible.  Surrender  was  never 
talked  about.  As  Thucydides  tells  us,  they  determined 
that  they  would  not  give  in.1  Two  of  the  measures  which 
they  undertook  were,  first,  the  creation  of  a  sort  of  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety,  a  Board  of  ten  Probuli,  an  oli- 
garchical institution ;  and  second,  the  conversion  into  prac- 
tical use  of  a  reserve  sum  in  the  Acropolis.  Happily  enough, 
at  the  very  outset  of  the  war  the  sum  of  a  thousand  talents 
had  been  set  aside  to  be  used  only  in  the  event  of  an  actual 
attack  upon  the  city  by  a  hostile  fleet.  If  any  person 
suggested  a  resolution  for  diverting  it  to  other  purposes 
the  penalty  was  death.  But  now  the  moment  had  clearly 
arrived  when  the  money  had  to  be  forthwith  expended; 
so,  at  the  advice  probably  of  the  Probuli,  the  death  penalty 
was  revoked  and  the  thousand  talents  were  to  be  made 
available  for  shipbuilding  purposes.  It  was  during  the 
year  412  B.C.,  the  darkest  period  of  the  Peloponnesian  War 
— darkest,  at  all  events,  before  the  ultimate  disaster — 
that  Aristophanes  was  writing  the  Lysistrata.  It  was  pro- 
duced at  the  commencement  of  the  year  411  B.C.,  and 
perhaps  the  most  marvellous  thing  about  it  was  that  it 
was  ever  produced  at  all.  For  Aristophanes  appears  once 
more  in  his  character  of  the  pacifist,  suggesting  the  absolute 
necessity  of  peace  in  the  Hellenic  world. 

In  order  to  appreciate  his  courage — or,  perhaps,  his 
hold  on  Athenian  audiences — let  us  attempt  to  realise  the 
conditions  of  the  time.  The  democracy  was  in  alarm  and 
despair;  there  was  imminent  danger  that  hostile  fleets, 
now  supported  by  victorious  Syracusan  triremes,  would 
attack  Athens  in  waters  nearer  home.  The  allies  were 
everywhere  revolting.  The  best  generals,  or,  at  all  events, 
those  whom  Athens  trusted  most,  had  been  killed.  There 
was  a  general  lack  of  money  and  of  most  of  the  munitions 
of  war.  I  have  already  referred  to  two  of  the  enactments 
by  means  of  which  Athens  hoped  to  be  able  to  provide 
for  her  defence.  I  mention  them  again  because  they  are 
both  alluded  to  in  the  Lysistrata,  and,  indeed,  form  part  of 
the  plot.  The  reserve  fund  of  a  thousand  talents  was  to 
be  made  use  of  to  build  fresh  triremes,  and  a  body  of  ten 
Probuli  had  been  appointed  to  watch  over  the  immediate 
necessities  of  the  State.  One  of  these  Probuli  is  brought 
1  Thuc,  viii.  1. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         55 

forward  as  a  State  officer  in  Aristophanes'  play.  We  only 
know  the  names  of  two — one  was  Hagnon,  the  other  was 
called  Sophocles,  but  whether  the  latter  was  or  was  not  the 
dramatist  remains  uncertain.  It  is  hardly  likely  that  the 
Probulos  in  the  play  was  made  up  to  represent  any  par- 
ticular officer,  but  we  observe  that  both  he  and  Lysistrata 
are  anxious,  for  different  reasons,  to  get  possession  of  the 
thousand  talents  of  the  Acropolis — the  former  in  order  to 
continue  the  war  and  the  latter  in  order  to  bring  it  to  an 
abrupt  conclusion. 

The  institution  of  the  ten  Probuli  was  undoubtedly  an 
oligarchical  measure.  Indeed,  one  of  the  anxieties  which 
at  this  moment  was  harassing  the  minds  of  Athenian 
democrats  was  the  signs  and  evidences  of  an  oligarchical 
reaction.  Shortly  afterwards  the  political  revolution  con- 
nected with  the  four  hundred  took  place,  giving  a  sinister 
significance  to  the  people's  fears.  But,  however  hardly 
bested,  the  citizens  were  in  no  mood  for  peace.  With 
the  energy  of  despair  the  State  had  resolved  on  supreme 
sacrifices.  It  refused  to  admit  the  idea  that  it  was  con- 
quered. The  general  attitude  of  the  people  was  sullen, 
savage,  despairing,  and  yet  obstinate.  With  such  a  temper 
prevalent  it  seems  hardly  credible  that  Aristophanes  should 
dare  to  present  a  farcical  play  with  the  satirical  thesis 
that  if  men  could  not  bring  peace  to  the  land,  at  all  events 
the  women  could.  Peace,  urged  the  dramatist,  was  the 
great  thing  to  be  desired — peace,  almost  at  any  price, 
even  the  surrender  of  Pylos,1  It  is,  however,  Worthy  of 
remark  that,  though  Lysistrata  was  intended  to  be  farcical, 
both  in  its  general  plot  and  in  the  incidents  it  portrays, 
there  is  also  a  deep-lying  seriousness,  a  grave  anxiety  as 
to  the  future,  which  reveals  itself  in  the  argument  between 
Lysistrata  and  the  chief  magistrate.  In  this  respect  it 
strongly  contrasts  with  the  next  play  which  Aristophanes 
produced,  the  Thesmophoriazusce,  when,  thanks  in  no  small 
measure  to  Alcibiades  and  a  few  victories  of  the  Athenian 
fleet,  the  general  condition  of  affairs  was  much  improved. 


§  6 

At  the  opening  of  the  play  Lysistrata,  a  young  Athenian 
married  woman,  is  standing  alone  in  front  of  the  gateway 
1  Cf.  Lysistrata  1163.     The  Athenians  still  held  Pylos.     Lysist.  104. 


56    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

which  led  to  the  Acropolis.  She  has  summoned  an 
Assembly  of  young  married  women,  not  only  from  Athens, 
but  from  Sparta,  Bceotia,  Corinth,  and  other  hostile  States, 
in  order  to  propound  a  plan  which  she  thinks  will  stop  the 
war.  Gradually  the  various  deputies  come  in,  especially 
Lampito  from  Sparta,  who  is  soon  discovered  to  be  very 
friendly  to  Lysistrata — an  allusion  probably  to  the  secret 
sympathy  which  all  along  seems  to  have  existed  between 
the  Peloponnesian  city  and  Athens.  To  the  assembled 
deputies  Lysistrata  propounds  her  scheme.  All  these 
young  married  women  are  to  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  their  husbands  until  the  latter  make  peace  and  put 
an  end  to  the  horrible  war.  Of  course,  some  of  the  women 
demur  to  this  project,  and  Lampito  herself,  though  inclined 
to  support  Lysistrata,  is  doubtful  whether  peace  is  possible 
so  long  as  there  are  those  thousand  talents  stored  up  in 
Athene's  Temple.  Lysistrata  reassures  her.  While  she  and 
the  younger  women  are  holding  the  present  Assembly, 
some  older  women  have  been  told  off  to  seize  the  Acropolis 
where  the  money  is  kept.  There  is,  in  fact,  a  thoroughly 
organised  revolt,  in  which  the  women  have  taken  possession 
of  the  chief  points  of  advantage. 

A  modern  paraphrase  of  this  play  was  produced  in  the 
autumn  of  1910  by  Miss  Gertrude  Kingston  at  the  Little 
Theatre.  Mr.  Laurence  Housman's  version  was  not  in 
any  sense  a  translation  from  the  original  Greek,  but  only 
an  adaptation;  but  it  was  very  cleverly  arranged  for  the 
stage,  and  gave  an  opportunity  for  an  English  audience 
to  get  some  idea  of  Aristophanic  comedy.  Perhaps,  there- 
fore, it  is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  details  of  the  plot. 
The  chorus,  consisting  of  twenty-four  persons,  is  divided 
into  two  portions — twelve  old  men  and  twelve  old  women. 
When  they  come  into  the  orchestra,  representing  the 
supporters  respectively  of  Lysistrata  and  the  Probulos  or 
chief  magistrate,  they  have  an  amusing  altercation,  the 
men  trying  to  set  fire  to  the  defences  organised  by  the 
women  and  the  women  retaliating  by  throwing  pails  of 
water  over  the  men.  The  Probulos  himself  comes  forward 
at  the  end  of  the  quarrel  and  a  long  debate  ensues  between 
him  and  Lysistrata,  the  poet,  of  course,  speaking  by  the 
mouthpiece  of  his  heroine  and  describing  the  reforms  which, 
in  his  opinion,  are  necessary  in  the  State.  Perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  exigencies  of  the  time  Aristophanes  carefully 
refrains  from  anything  savouring  of  mere  partisanship. 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         57 

What  he  recommends  is  what  would  be  recommended  by 
any  patriot — that  is  to  say,  the  removal  of  abuses,  the 
suppression  of  party  intrigue,  and  a  union  of  all  loyal 
citizens  in  hearty  co-operation  and  goodwill.  Then,  after 
the  chorus  once  more  have  been  seen  in  altercation,  an 
interval  of  five  days  is  supposed  to  elapse.  By  this  time 
the  separation  of  the  sexes  has  become  an  evil  too  great 
to  be  borne,  and  there  are  evident  signs  that  sooner  or 
later  one  of  the  two  parties  must  give  way.  Lysistrata 
has  no  little  difficulty  in  preventing  some  of  the  young 
women  in  her  company  from  being  the  first  to  abandon 
their  programme,  and  a  young  wife,  Myrrhina,  has  a 
long  interview  with  her  husband — apparently  permitted 
by  Lysistrata — which  looks  compromising.  Nevertheless, 
though  she  seems  on  the  point  of  succumbing,  Myrrhina 
finally  escapes  back  into  the  Acropolis.  But  the  end  has 
already  been  reached.  Deputies  come  from  Sparta  meet- 
ing deputies  also  from  Athens,  and  the  women  have  clearly 
gained  the  day.  Lysistrata,  as  usual,  admonishes  both 
sides,  and  manages  to  effect  an  arrangement  which  ensures 
peace,  the  play  ending  with  the  usual  festive  banquet  and 
general  expressions  of  amity.  It  is  a  witty  and  highly 
paradoxical  play,  disfigured  by  much  indecency  from  our 
point  of  view,  but  in  that  respect  not  differing  from 
other  Aristophanic  comedies.  It  must  have  had  a 
curious  effect  in  Athens  on  the  eve  of  an  oligarchical 
reaction,  while  the  city  was  strenuously  endeavouring, 
even  with  her  diminished  resources,  to  carry  on  the 
war. 

For  Lysistrata,  as  we  have  seen,  was  brought  out  at  the 
time  when  intrigues  were  on  foot  to  replace  the  existing 
democracy  by  other  forms  of  government.  Peisander  was 
the  leader  of  the  revolution,  who,  shortly  after  the  play 
had  been  produced,  came  to  Athens  from  the  camp  at 
Samos  in  order  to  organise  the  oligarchy.  Aristophanes, 
of  course,  could  not  have  disliked  the  tendency  of  the 
time,  for  he  was  never  a  friend  to  the  democracy  and 
probably  thought  that  any  change  might  be  for  the  better. 
But  his  primary  desire  was  for  peace — peace  at  any  price, 
peace  to  be  obtained  by  the  women  if  the  men  were 
incapable  to  secure  it. 


58    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

§7 

With  the  Lysistrata,  however,  the  series  of  peace- 
comedies  comes  to  a  close,  and  overwhelming  external 
events  seem  to  have  closed  the  advocate's  mouth.  The 
Thesmophoriazusce,  which  only  appeared  a  few  months 
later  than  Lysistrata,  has  no  politics  in  it.  It  is  a  satire 
on  women  and  on  Aristophanes'  old  butt,  Euripides,  but 
no  question  is  raised  touching  Athens'  policy.  Besides, 
the  oligarchical  conspirators  had  begun  their  reign  of 
terror,  and,  though  the  note  of  the  comedy  is  fairly  joyous 
— for  Athens  had  won  some  victories — it  was  clearly  not 
a  time  to  jest  with  the  authorities. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  most  pathetic  of  all  the  comedies, 
if  we  look  at  it  in  connection  with  the  moment  at  which 
it  was  produced,  is  the  well-known  and  deservedly  popular 
piece  called  The  Frogs.  The  date  was  405  B.C.  Athens 
was  entering  upon  her  last  agony,  making  her  final  efforts 
to  stave  off  ruin.  Eight  months  later  was  fought  the 
fatal  battle  of  ^Egospotami.  Fifteen  months  afterwards 
Lysander  captured  Athens  and  the  Peloponnesian  War 
was  at  an  end.  What  could  a  comic  poet  do  at  such  a 
time  but  attempt  to  turn  away  men's  minds  from  the  terror 
of  approaching  defeat,  and  with  a  desperate  earnestness 
work  to  make  them  laugh  ?  It  was  a  vain  attempt,  prob- 
ably, but  Aristophanes  did  his  best.  He  made  his  frogs 
croak  their  immortal  strain,  "  Brekekekex  Koax,  Koax." 
He  showed  his  fellow-citizens  how  bereft  of  true  poets  was 
their  native  city  and  how  necessary  it  was  to  feed  their 
minds  on  the  great  names  of  the  past.  Dionysus  goes  down 
to  Hades  to  bring  back  a  poet  from  the  shades.  For  the 
vacant  throne  of  tragedy  JEschylus  and  Euripides  have  an 
amusing  contest,  and  the  victory  is  decreed  to  the  older 
dramatist — ^Eschylus,  who  fought  for  the  Greeks  against 
the  Persians  and  who  represented  that  happier  time  of 
Hellenic  unity  to  which  Aristophanes'  thoughts  are  always 
fondly  turning.  Thus  the  comedy  is  in  reality  a  literary 
criticism  and  nothing  else,  in  which  the  poet  illustrates 
once  more  his  inveterate  dislike  of  the  "  modern  "  dramatist 
who  had  brought  down  tragedy  from  heaven  to  earth. 
Cleon,  the  demagogue;  Socrates,  the  sophist;  Euripides, 
the  realist  —  these  represent  the  permanent  hates  of 
Aristophanes.  He  certainly  could  hate  well  and  in  all 
probability  he  was  unjust  to  all  three,  certainly  to  the  two 


ARISTOPHANES,   THE   PACIFIST         59 

latter  and  perhaps  also  to  the  first.  In  any  general  esti- 
mate, however,  of  Aristophanes  we  must  not  forget  that, 
apart  from  his  strongly-marked  satiric  tendency,  with 
which  I  have  been  principally  concerned,  he  was  one  of  the 
most  indubitable  of  poets.  He  sang  songs  of  ethereal 
beauty,  and  his  "  native  wood-notes  wild  "  had  no  little 
of  the  unstudied  charm  and  spontaneity  of  Shakespeare. 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF 
PATRIOTISM 


IT  is  one  of  the  strange  delusions  of  "  modem  "  critics, 
especially  if  they  happen  to  have  a  scientific  training,  that 
little  of  real  value  can  be  learnt  from  Greek  and  Latin 
classics.  The  uselessness  of  Latin  and  Greek  had  been  the 
theme  of  much  indignant  rhetoric  on  the  ground  that  the 
time  spent  over  dead  languages  might  be  much  more 
profitably  spent  over  living  ones,  or,  better  still,  devoted 
to  science.  No  argument  can  have  weight  with  those  who 
have  made  up  their  minds  on  the  subject  on  the  one  side 
or  the  other,  because  the  question  really  turns  on  a  difference 
of  temperament,  or,  as  we  used  to  say,  on  whether  a  man 
is  born  an  Aristotelian  or  a  Platonist.  Nevertheless,  I 
have  ventured  to  say  that  the  anti-classical  attitude  involves 
a  strange  delusion,  for  the  simple  reason  that  ancient 
history  and  literature  are  full  of  "  lessons  "  for  the  modern 
reader.  Perpetually  during  the  course  of  the  present  war 
we  have  been  reminded  of  historic  examples  which  seem 
to  illustrate  recent  events  and  controversies,  and  though 
we  are  chary  now  of  affirming  that  history  goes  in  cycles 
which  reproduce,  one  another,  and  are  more  inclined  to 
speak  of  progress  in  a  rectilinear  development,  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  modern  problems  often  seem  to  reproduce 
ancient  ones — possibly  because  human  nature  remains 
fundamentally  the  same. 

The  questions,  for  instance,  whether  democracies  can 
govern  dependencies,  whether  an  aristocracy  or  a  democracy 
is  better  fitted  for  carrying  on  a  prolonged  war,  whether 
autocracy  or  a  free  commonwealth  is  the  ideal  constitution 
for  the  human  race,  whether  politicians  should  control 
generals  or  generals  govern  politicians,  whether  Imperialism 
in  foreign  relations  is  compatible  with  free  institutions 
or  untrammelled  Parliamentary  debate  at  home,  whether 

60 


PRINCIPLES   OF  PATRIOTISM          61 

Socialism  is  or  is  not  a  practical  polity  —  on  these  and  many 
other  points  too  numerous  to  mention  the  histories  of  Greece 
and  Rome  shed  abundant  lights.  In  the  present  paper  I 
desire  to  take  a  concrete  case.  We  talk  a  great  deal  about 
Patriotism  —  what  it  means,  what  consequences  it  involves, 
how  it  stands  related  to  the  wider  feelings  of  what  we  call 
cosmopolitanism  or  internationalism.  I  know  no  better 
or  more  illuminating  material  for  a  study  of  this  kind  than 
is  furnished  by  the  career  of  Demosthenes,  the  Athenian 
patriot,  in  his  struggle  with  the  barbarian  power  of  Macedon 
and  the  autocratic  efficiency  of  Philip.  From  beginning  to 
end  of  his  speeches  to  the  Athenian  public  he  is  for  ever 
illustrating  the  claims,  the  duties,  and  the  rights  of  a  true 
lover  of  his  country. 


Three  notable  figures  in  Greek  history  were  born  at  about 
the  same  date  —  Philip  of  Macedon,  Demosthenes,  and 
Aristotle.  The  last-named  was  chosen  by  the  Macedonian 
King  as  tutor  for  his  son  Alexander;  Philip  and  Demos- 
thenes were  antagonists  during  the  whole  course  of  their 
careers.  Aristotle  represented  the  scientific  and  philo- 
sophical interest  in  which  Greece  was  once  more  to  show 
an  example  to  the  world.  The  sphere  of  politics  occupied 
the  other  two  men  during  a  period  of  Athenian  decline— 
which  Demosthenes  did  his  best  to  prevent  and  Philip  his 
utmost  to  promote.  After  the  end  of  the  Peloponnesian 
War  Athens  never  recovered  "  the  first  fine,  careless 
rapture"  of  her  prime.  She  had  her  brief  moments  of 
revival,  and,  indeed,  as  compared  with  the  increasing 
degeneracy  of  Sparta  she  showed  a  high  spirit  in  organising 
anew  her  naval  power.  She  also  possessed  a  few  generals 
of  no  little  brilliancy,  such  as  Timotheus,  Chares,  Iphi- 
crates,  Diopithes,  Phocion,  who  gained  fitful  triumphs  in 
circumstances  of  considerable  difficulty.  But  her  increas- 
ing use  of  mercenaries  —  instead  of  native-born  soldiers  — 
and  her  passionate  desire  to  keep  intact  her  Theoric  Fund 
so  as  to  provide  for  her  festivals  and  spectacular  exhibitions 
when  the  need  of  the  moment  was  for  munitions  of  war, 
told  their  own  tale.  Athens  had  lost  her  energy,  her 
initiative,  her  spontaneity  ;  she  was,  as  one  of  her  satirists 
described  her,  "  an  old  woman  in  slippers  guzzling  her 
porridge,"  instead  of  a  Marathon  fighter;  she  had  all  the 


62    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

lassitude  and  slackness  of  one  stricken  with  an  incurable 
and  enervating  malady.  And  here  we  touch  the  tragedy 
of  Demosthenes'  life.  Himself  a  man  of  unwearied  energy, 
with  a  patriotic  spirit  nursed  on  the  heroic  examples  of  the 
past — having  Thucydides  at  his  finger-ends  and  keeping 
constantly  before  his  eyes  the  dominating  figure  of  Pericles 
—he  was  doomed  to  live  in  an  age  which  had  outworn  its 
older  ideals  and  among  a  people  who  could  only  be  galvan- 
ised by  repeated  shocks  into  anything  approaching  activity. 
Great  men  lack  some  of  their  greatness  when  they  are 
deprived  of  a  sympathetic  environment.  Their "  own 
nobility  remains  the  same  and  shines  the  brighter,  perhaps, 
because  of  its  singularity.  But  they  lose  the  comforting 
assurance  of  effectiveness ;  they  do  not  see  the  results  of 
their  labours.  They  feel  all  the  drawbacks  of  solitariness  : 
they  stand  alone.  The  isolation  of  Demosthenes  is  one  of 
the  pathetic  aspects  which  strike  most  acutely  the  student 
of  his  age.  For  the  men  who  should  have  worked  most 
closely  with  him,  and  helped  his  ambitions  by  sharing  them, 
did  not  possess  his  large  vision  and  could  not  see  as  clearly 
as  he  could  the  signs  of  the  times.  Isocrates,  for  instance, 
"  the  old  man  eloquent,"  and  the  honest  Phocion  ought  to 
have  stood  by  him.  But  their  eyes  were  holden.  They 
were  utterly  mistaken  about  the  aims  and  character  of 
Philip.  One  thinks  at  times  of  a  modern  statesman,  the 
lonely  Venizelos,  in  the  midst  of  a  decadent  Greece. 

Demosthenes  was  not  a  born  orator.  He  laboriously 
educated  himself  for  his  high  career  in  spite  of  natural 
disadvantages.  Probably  he  had  as  a  boy  some  sort  of 
impediment  in  his  speech.  His  voice  was  not  strong,  and 
we  know  that  his  rival  ^Eschines  derided  him  for  not  being 
athletic  or  a  sportsman.  Numerous  stories  are  told  of  his 
rigorous  self-discipline.  He  is  said  to  have  shut  himself 
up  in  an  underground  chamber,  having  shaved  one  side  of 
his  face  to  prevent  any  temptation  to  come  out  in  the 
light  of  day  and  to  ensure  close  and  continuous  study.  He 
put  pebbles  into  his  mouth  and  then  tried  to  speak  against 
the  roar  of  incoming  waves,  he  recited  while  he  ran  uphill, 
and,  according  to  report,  wrote  out  with  his  own  hand 
Thucydides'  history  eight  several  times.  We  know  also 
that  he  took  lessons  from  Isaeus,  an  orator  of  distinction, 
and  there  is  also  a  tale  that  he  was  an  eager  listener  to 
Plato.  His  earlier  efforts  at  oratory  were  disastrous,  and 
on  one  occasion  after  a  failure  while  he  was  roaming  in 


PRINCIPLES   OF  PATRIOTISM          63 

the  Piraeus  he  was  encouraged  by  an  actor,  who  took  him 
in  hand  and  gave  him  some  valuable  hints.  There  seems 
no  question  that  he  was  not  born  great,  but  rather  achieved 
greatness  by  persistent  industry.  His  enemies  declared 
that  his  speeches  were  wanting  in  naturalness  and  smelt 
of  the  midnight  oil.  Indeed,  one  ancient  critic  contrasted 
him  with  Cicero  in  this  respect,  giving  to  the  Roman  orator 
the  charm  of  spontaneity  and  to  the  Greek  the  merit  of 
elaboration  and  study.  However  this  may  be,  there  is 
no  question  which  was  the  greater  orator.  There  is  no 
oration  which  is  quite  comparable  with  the  speech  of 
Demosthenes  "  On  the  Crown  "  in  the  perfection  of  its 
style,  the  sonority  of  its  eloquence,  and  its  graphic  mixture 
of  the  narrative  and  the  rhetorical  manner.  It  is  said 
that  -ZEschines,  his  antagonist  on  this  occasion,  after  he 
had  retired  from  Athens,  gave  Demosthenes'  speech  for 
recitation  to  his  pupils,  and  when  they  were  loud  in  their 
expressions  of  admiration,  remarked  :  "  What  would  you 
have  said  if  you  had  heard  the  man  deliver  it  himself?  " 
If  the  Athenian  originally  spoke  with  difficulty,  he  assuredly 
succeeded  in  conquering  all  obstacles.  We  who  only  read 
his  words  on  the  printed  page  feel  the  charm  of  his  diction 
and  the  musical  rhythm  of  his  best  periods.  But  his  con- 
temporary audience  were  aware  that  they  were  listening 
to  a  man  who  combined  appropriate  action  with  a  forceful 
oratory  which  carried  them  off  their  feet,  a  man  whose 
nervous  energy  and  eager,  inspired  face  added  weight  and 
charm  to  the  noble  ethical  principles  of  his  political  creed. 
Thucydides  no  doubt  had  taught  him  much,  but  he  owed 
still  more  to  his  own  character  and  temperament.  Only 
Phocion  could  sometimes  get  the  better  of  him  by  his 
rugged  simplicity  and  directness.  "  Here  comes  the  man 
who  can  split  my  harangues  in  two,"  Demosthenes  said  when 
Phocion  arose  to  address  the  Assembly.  It  was  like  the 
contest  between  Brutus  and  Mark  Antony — only  in  the 
reverse  order,  with  Brutus  cutting  deep  into  Antony's 
flamboyant  eloquence. 

§  2 

On  the  other  hand,  if  Demosthenes  was  not  a  born  orator, 
his  great  adversary,  Philip,  was  a  born  king  and  leader  of 
men,  and  had  a  native  genius  for  war.  No  one  could  have 
ascended  the  throne  in  the  midst  of  more  pressing  diffi- 


64    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

culties  and  dangers  than  the  man  who  succeeded  Perdiccas  in 
359  B.C.  Macedonia  was  encircled  by  foes,  and  the  new  ruler 
was  only  twenty-three  years  of  age.  On  the  north,  the 
Paeonians,  on  the  west,  the  Illyrians  threatened  incursions, 
and  in  some  cases  carried  them  out  with  the  usual  ravaging 
of  territory.  Moreover,  Philip  had  to  face  two  pretenders, 
Pausanias,  supported  by  King  Cotys  of  Thrace,  and  Argaeus, 
who  was  the  nominee  of  Athens.  As  against  the  latter  city, 
Philip  was  at  a  great  disadvantage,  because  he  possessed 
no  maritime  towns  of  importance,  while  Athens  held  at 
this  time  Pydna,  Methone,  Potidaea  and  some  other  places 
in  Chalcidice  as  well  as  towns  in  the  Chersonese.  Islands 
such  as  Thasos,  Lemnos,  Imbros  were  hers,  and  she  was 
allied  with  Byzantium.  Along  all  the  northern  coast  of 
the  ^Egean,  which  has  become  of  such  importance  in  the 
present  war,  the  influence  and  power  of  Athens,  based  on  her 
fleet,  were  nearly  supreme.  Olynthus  was  the  only  State 
in  this  neighbourhood  strong  enough  to  resist  her.  And 
yet  in  twelve  months  Philip  succeeded  in  transforming  the 
whole  situation.  He  defeated  Argaeus  and  the  Athenians  : 
chastised  the  Paeonians  and  Illyrians;  bribed  Cotys  to 
give  up  the  cause  of  Pausanias ;  and  then,  after  professing 
friendship  with  the  Athenians  and  deluding  them  with 
vague  promises,  turned  his  arms  against  Amphipolis,  a 
town  which  Athens  had  always  claimed  as  her  own,  and 
which  even  now  the  Macedonian  King  declared  he  would 
surrender  to  her  in  exchange  for  Pydna.  He  was  naturally 
anxious  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  any  armed  assistance 
being  given  to  Amphipolis  while  he  was  besieging  the  town. 
No  sooner  did  it  fall  than  he  forgot  his  promises,  changed 
his  mind  and  kept  both  Amphipolis  and  Pydna  for  himself. 
His  army  had  already  been  brought  to  a  state  of  high  mili- 
tary efficiency.  His  navy  henceforth  became  an  object 
of  close  and  constant  care.  Naturally,  as  against  the  loose 
confederation  of  Athens  with  her  allies,  an  autocratic  despot 
like  Philip  possessed  great  advantages.  This  is  how  a 
little  later,  in  his  First  Olynthiac  oration,  Demosthenes 
refers  to  this  point.  "  The  danger  is  that  this  man,  with 
all  his  cleverness  and  unscrupulousness — making  con- 
cessions here,  threatening  there — may  convert  and  wrest 
to  his  use  some  of  our  main  resources.  He  has  it  in  his 
sole  power  to  publish  or  conceal  his  designs  :  he  is  at  one 
and  the  same  time  general,  sovereign,  paymaster :  he 
accompanies  his  army  everywhere.  These  are  great 


PRINCIPLES   OF   PATRIOTISM          65 

advantages  for  quick  and  timely  operations  in  war."  * 
The  words  have  a  curiously  modern  ring.  One  might 
almost  imagine  an  Allied  statesman  in  the  present  war 
pointing  out  how  the  military  autocracy  of  Germany  helps 
the  Central  Powers  in  their  great  campaign. 

It  does  not  appear  that  the  Macedonian  menace  was  very 
quickly  appreciated  in  Athens.  Indeed,  Demosthenes  him- 
self, who  saw  farther  than  most  of  his  contemporaries, 
hardly  realised  at  first  all  that  it  involved.  In  the  earliest 
of  his  speeches  to  the  Assembly — as  distinct  from  his  private 
and  legal  orations — he  is  concerned  with  another  peril, 
one  which  perpetually  loomed  large  in  the  imagination  of 
Hellenes,  the  peril  of  the  Persian  King.  The  speech, 
which  goes  by  the  name  Ueql  ra>v  ZVJUJUOQICOV  (B.C.  354),  is 
a  very  remarkable  example  of  Demosthenes'  statesmanship. 
As  against  those  who  were  always  preoccupied  with  the 
possibility  of  Persian  designs  on  Greece,  largely  on  the 
ground  that  Persia  was  the  hereditary  enemy,  Demosthenes 
saw  clearly  enough  that  the  situation  was  essentially 
changed,  and  that  the  clouds  on  the  Eastern  horizon  no 
longer  portended  an  imminent  storm.  There  was  no  fear 
of  an  attack  from  this  quarter  :  in  point  of  fact,  the  Persian 
monarch  had  now  become  a  sort  of  relieving  officer  for 
Hellenic  pecuniary  embarrassment,  an  ally  to  whom  one 
or  other  of  the  parties — Spartan  or  Athenian — appealed 
for  help  against  their  rivals  of  the  moment.  It  suited 
Philip  at  a  later  stage  to  pose  as  Generalissimo  of  the 
Greek  forces  against  the  old  foe  who  had  dared  to  invade 
the  sacred  soil  of  Hellas,  and  had  been  thoroughly  well 
beaten  for  his  pains.  But  for  the  present — at  the  time  when 
Demosthenes  was  speaking — the  Persian  king  was  practi- 
cally harmless.  It  certainly  behoved  Athens  to  prepare 
herself  for  any  contingency  :  she  should  remain  on  the 
defensive,  however,  and  not  attempt  any  initiative.  And 
from  this  point  Demosthenes  goes  on  to  sketch  an  outline 
of  the  reforms  on  which  he  insisted  in  many  subsequent 
harangues — the  necessity  of  rearranging  contributions  to 
the  State  service,  so  that  the  fleet,  above  all,  should  be  kept 
in  a  position  of  thorough  efficiency. 

At  this  time  Philip  of  Macedon  was  a  cloud  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  hand,  and  his  name  does  not  occur  in  the 
speech.  The  great  enemy,  as  he  became  afterwards,  was 
reorganising  his  kingdom,  training  his  Macedonian  phalanx, 

1  Dem.,  'OA.  I.  4.     [The  references  are  to  Bekker's  edition.] 
P 


66    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

laying  the  foundation  for  a  navy.  Towards  Athens  he 
kept  the  attitude  of  a  friend,  and  he  took  care  to  be  repre- 
sented in  the  City  by  orators,  who,  either  through  blind- 
ness or  greed,  were  devoted  to  his  interests.  Eubulus  was 
one,  so  were  Demades  and  ^schines;  and  even  Phocion, 
though  no  one  could  suspect  his  probity,  often  played  his 
game.  Afterwards,  Philip  threw  off  the  mask.  He  dared 
to  threaten  Thermopylae,  but  when  he  found  the  pass 
occupied  by  Athenian  troops  he  thought  it  wiser  to  retire. 
In  Chalcidice  and  in  Thrace  he  adopted  bolder  tactics. 
He  took  pains  to  secure  the  wealthy  mines  of  M.  Pangaeus, 
and  after  playing  with  Athens,  and  deluding  her  with  the 
idea  that  he  was  going  to  capture  Amphipolis  on  her  behalf, 
openly  showed  his  hand  by  advancing  on  the  important 
town  of  Olynthus,  which  he  subsequently  mastered,  helped 
by  the  treachery  of  Lasthenes  and  the  supineness  of  Athens. 

§3 

I  am  not  concerned  in  this  paper  with  the  incidents  of 
the  orator's  life,  nor  yet  with  the  various  steps  by  which 
Philip — after  his  victory  at  Chaeroneia — rose  to  supremacy 
over  the  Greek  world.  I  wish  rather  to  indicate  the  chief 
features  of  Demosthenes'  policy,  and  the  illustrations  he 
gives  of  the  basic  principles  of  patriotism.  Fortunately, 
for  our  purpose,  there  is  an  inner  consistency  in  his  views 
from  the  beginning  to  the  sorry  ending  of  his  career.  Let 
us  remind  ourselves  that  he  was  a  great  student  of  the  his- 
tory of  Thucydides  and  a  devoted  admirer  of  Pericles.  What 
was  the  ideal  of  Athenian  citizenship  which  the  great 
statesman  delineated  for  his  countrymen  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Peloponnesian  War?  It  was  freedom  in  the  first 
place,  complete  liberty  under  democratic  forms.  It  was 
culture  in  the  second  place,  for  Athens  was  the  soul  of 
Greece,  and  her  high  level  of  mental  attainment  was  a 
shining  beacon  for  her  age.  This  culture  was  alike  intellec- 
tual and  aesthetic.  "  We  love  beauty,  and  yet  are  not  soft 
or  enervated."  x  The  Athenians  were  to  be  strong,  both 
on  land  and  sea,  and  yet  militarism — such  as  was  to  be 
found  in  Sparta — was  abhorrent  to  the  civic  idea.  They 
were  to  be  soldiers,  but  not  pipe-clay  soldiers  :  they  were 
to  cultivate  intelligence  rather  than  sell  their  souls  to  the 

1  I  refer,  of  course,  to  Pericles'  great  speech  over  the  fallen,  as  reported 
by  Thucydides.  II.  35  etfoll. 


PRINCIPLES   OF  PATRIOTISM          67 

drill-sergeant.  Above  all,  they  were  to  love  their  native 
State,  which  was  to  be  for  them  not  a  cold  abstraction,  but 
a  living  and  adorable  entity.  Few  things  are  more 
remarkable  than  Pericles'  language  on  this  point,  as 
narrated  by  Thucydides.  The  Athenians  were  to  become 
enamoured  of  Athens,  to  be  her  lovers,  as  though  she  were 
a  mistress  who  asked  of  them  their  deepest  devotion. 
Patriotism  in  this  sense  is  not  another  name  for  civic  duty ; 
it  is  almost  an  emotional  rhapsody. 

To  Demosthenes,  studying  this  Periclean  idea,  several 
modifications  seemed  necessary,  mainly  because  the  times 
had  altered,  but  partly  because  of  certain  implicit  imperfec- 
tions. The  love  of  Athens  was  too  exclusive  an  ardour  : 
it  was  based  on  the  principle  that  Athens  was  super- 
eminent  in  Greece  and  could  tolerate  no  rivals.  There  was 
no  Panhellenic  feeling  in  it;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
consistent  with  a  duel  to  the  death  against  another  Greek 
State,  Sparta.  Demosthenes,  indeed,  thought  that  Athens 
deserved  supremacy,  but  she  must  deserve  it  because  she 
was  the  embodiment  of  a  Panhellenic  idea,  the  natural 
leader  of  a  Greece  which  willingly  allowed  herself  to  be 
led.  Athens  after  Pericles  had  become  Imperialist,  a  despot 
city,  ruling  her  allies  and  subject- States  with  a  rod  of  iron. 
That  must  no  longer  be  her  policy.  She  ought  everywhere 
to  support  Greek  communities,  help  them  in  their  struggles, 
preserve  their  independence,  above  all,  render  assistance 
by  land  and  sea,  if  they  were  menaced  by  a  foreign  and 
barbarian  Power,  such  as  Macedon.  Patriotism  to  the  city 
of  Cecrops  was  to  be  based  on  a  wider  patriotism  to  Hellenes 
anywhere  and  everywhere — very  much  as  love  of  Eng- 
land should  mean  loyalty  to  Great  Britain  and  her  sister 
dominions  and  commonwealths.  Against  despotisms  and 
tyrannies  Athens,  as  a  true  democracy,  was  always  to  wage 
war.  If  Sparta  attempted  to  domineer,  as  she  did  from 
^Egospotami  to  Leuctra,  she  was  to  be  fought  down.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  Thebes  repented  of  her  evil  ways,  she  was 
to  be  assisted,  despite  her  long-standing  hostility  to  Athens. 

Illustrations  of  this  Panhellenic  attitude  can  be  found 
throughout  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes.  I  take,  for 
instance,  more  or  less  at  haphazard,  the  oration  "  On  the 
Chersonese,"  which  was  delivered  B.C.  342.  The  Athenians 
had  dispatched  a  body  of  citizens  to  receive  allotments 
of  land  in  the  Chersonese  under  the  command  of  Diopithes. 
Disputes  arose  with  the  Cardians,  who  were  at  once  assisted 


68    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

by  Philip.  But  Diopithes  held  his  own,  and  even  carried 
the  war  into  Thracian  territory.  The  question  arose 
whether  on  Philip's  remonstrance  Diopithes  was  to  be 
recalled.  Demosthenes  stoutly  supported  and  defended 
the  Athenian  general,  who  in  his  view  was  promoting  the 
interests  of  Hellas  against  barbarians,  and  in  especial  was 
protecting  the  Chersonese.  It  was  much  to  the  advantage 
of  Athens  to  have  a  permanent  force  on  the  northern  coast 
of  the  JEgean  Sea,  so  that  help  might  readily  be  given  to 
any  Hellenic  State  which  was  being  menaced  by  a  Mace- 
donian force.  "  Is  it  urged,"  said  the  orator,  "  that  the 
Byzantines  are  infatuated  and  besotted  ?  Very  likely  : 
yet  they  must  be  rescued  for  all  that,  because  it  is  good  for 
Athens."  x  They  are  Greeks,  in  short,  and  therefore  Athens 
is  their  natural  protector.  Here,  too,  is  another  passage 
to  the  same  effect.  "  Suppose  some  god  would  assure  — 
for  certainly  no  mortal  would  undertake  such  a  guarantee 
—  that  even  though  you  remained  quiet  and  abandoned 
everything,  Philip  would  not  attack  you  at  the  last.  Yet, 
by  Zeus  and  all  the  gods,  it  would  be  a  disgraceful  act, 
unworthy  of  yourselves,  of  the  character  of  Athens 
and  the  deeds  of  your  ancestors,  if  for  the  sake  of  selfish 
ease  you  were  to  abandon  the  rest  of  Greece  to  servitude. 
For  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  die  than  give  such 
counsel."  2  Athens  is  the  city  community  which  is  wedded 
to  freedom,  and  therefore  the  duty  incumbent  on  her,  as 
a  democracy  which  can  never  ally  herself  with  despots, 
is  to  help  other  Greek  States  to  remain  free.  This,  too, 
is  the  spirit  of  the  oration  "  On  the  liberty  of  the  Rhodians  " 
(351  B.C.).  Rhodes,  whatever  her  past  sins,  must  be  saved 
from  oligarchs  and  tyrants. 

§  4 

But  we  must  get  closer  to  this  question  of  patriotism. 
Apart  from  the  general  allegiance  to  the  Panhellenic  idea, 
there  is  the  duty  of  the  individual  to  his  own  State.  On 
what  does  the  obligation  of  patriotism  rest?  On  two 
principles,  above  all.  The  first  is,  that  a  man  does  not 
belong  to  himself,  but  to  the  State  which  feeds,  nurtures, 
protects  him,  and  assures  him  in  the  possession  of  many 


1  Dem.,  nepl  T&V  ev  Xeppovliffv,  16.     I  use  for  the  most  part  C.  R.  Ken- 
nedy's admirable  translation  of  Demosthenes'  speeches.     (G.  Bell  &  Sons.) 

2  Ibid.,  50. 


PRINCIPLES   OF  PATRIOTISM          69 

civic  privileges.  This  principle  is  laid  down  in  the  oration 
"  On  the  Crown  " — which  is  a  perfect  storehouse  of  maxims 
and  principles  applicable  both  to  the  conduct  of  politicians 
and  of  individual  citizens.  Let  us  observe  the  bearing  of 
this  principle — or,  rather,  from  Demosthenes'  point  of 
view,  this  axiom  or  postulate — of  citizenship.  An  indi- 
vidual citizen  does  not  belong  to  himself,  but  to  the  State. 1 
It  follows,  therefore,  that  he  has  no  rights  against  the  State  : 
if  he  subsequently  earns  rights,  it  is  in  virtue  of  his  perform- 
ance of  certain  duties  which — because  the  State  so  ordains 
— give  him  privileges.  What  other  consequences  can  we 
draw  ?  Clearly  this  :  that  he  has  no  claim  to  exercise 
his  own  judgment,  as  against  the  superior  demands  of  the 
State  upon  him.  He  cannot  plead  "  conscience "  if  he 
is  wanted  as  a  soldier.  As  he  has  no  right  to  a  personal 
opinion  in  moments  when  his  city  or  his  commonwealth 
is  in  danger,  the  "  conscientious  objector  " — of  whom  we 
hear  so  much  in  modern  times — is  ruled  out  of  court. 
Demosthenes  would  have  no  sympathy  with  him  :  probably 
he  could  not  even  understand  him.  Individual  opinion 
is  not  allowed  in  questions  of  Art  and  Literature,  in  which 
authority  and  expert  judgment  alone  have  the  right  to  be 
heard.  How  much  less  can  individual  opinion  be  permitted 
in  questions  which  affect  the  stability,  the  continued  exist- 
ence of  the  State  ?  Of  course,  in  easy-going  times  of  peace, 
we  only  smile  at  the  vagaries  of  personal  opinion.  But 
in  a  crisis,  under  actual  conditions  of  war,  individualism 
may  be  a  deadly  danger  to  the  best  interests  of  the 
Commonwealth. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  second  principle  of  patriotism.  If  a 
citizen  does  not  belong  to  himself,  patriotism  must  involve 
the  obligation  of  personal  service.  There  is  no  more  con- 
stant note  in  the  Demosthenic  harangues  than  the  necessity 
for  Athenians  to  shoulder  their  own  burdens.  No  man 
must  delegate  this  duty  to  another  :  he  must  undertake 
it  himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Athens  after  the  close  of 
the  Peloponnesian  War  had  adopted  more  and  more  the 

Eractice  of  employing  mercenaries  to  fight  her  battles  for 
er,  both  on  sea  and  land.  Her  generals,  like  Timotheus 
or  Chares,  or  still  more,  Charidemus,  took  with  them  on 
their  expeditions  hardly  any  Athenians,  but  large  bodies 
of  mercenaries  and  soldiers  of  fortune.  The  result  was  that 
when  payment  was  in  arrears  these  men  took  to  plundering 

1  Dem.,  Uepl  TOV  2rf((>dvov,   260. 


70    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

and  filibustering,  and  the  Allies  of  Athens  learned  to  dread 
the  arrival  of  an  Athenian  force,  because  it  generally  meant 
that  they  were  despoiled  by  soldiers  who,  not  having 
regular  pay,  lived  from  hand  to  mouth  on  whatever  they 
could,  lawfully  or  unlawfully,  annex.  Demosthenes,  though 
he  points  out  the  practical  disadvantages  of  mercenary 
forces,  takes,  as  we  should  expect,  the  higher  standpoint 
that  citizens  ought  themselves  to  serve  in  the  navy  and  the 
army  as  a  matter  of  duty.  Here  is  a  significant  passage 
in  the  First  Philippic  (B.C.  352)  : — "  If  you  Athenians  will 
only  exert  yourselves  now  though  you  did  not  before  :  if 
every  man,  where  he  can  and  ought  to  give  his  service  to 
the  State,  is  ready  to  give  it  without  excuse  :  if  the  wealthy 
will  contribute  and  the  able-bodied  will  enlist :  in  a  word, 
if  you  will  become  your  own  masters  and  cease  to  think  that 
your  neighbour  will  do  everything  for  you  if  you  do  nothing 
yourself — then,  if  Heaven  so  will,  you  shall  recover  your 
own,  get  back  what  you  have  frittered  away,  and  mete  out 
punishment  to  Philip."  x  Here  is  another  passage  from  the 
Second  Olynthiac  : — "  You  must  show  yourselves  greatly 
changed,  greatly  reformed,  contributing,  serving  personally, 
acting  promptly,  before  any  one  will  pay  attention  to  you."2 
Or,  once  more,  at  the  end  of  the  Third  Olynthiac  : — "  How 
is  it  that  all  used  to  go  prosperously  and  all  now  goes 
wrong  ?  Because  anciently  the  people  had  the  courage  to 
be  soldiers  and  controlled  the  statesmen.  ...  Is  there  such 
an  emergency  as  the  present  ?  Far  better  to  be  a  soldier, 
as  you  ought,  in  your  country's  cause."  3  Every  one, 
according  to  Demosthenes,  owes  something  to  the  State. 
Let  him  contribute  what  he  can — money,  if  he  has  it  to 
give  :  taxes  which  the  State  imposes  on  him,  let  him  pay 
cheerfully.  But  the  greatest  of  these  is  Personal  Service. 


§5 

Demosthenes  rarely  allowed  himself  to  utter  a  single 
word  of  pessimism  :  to  despair  of  the  Commonwealth  would 
have  seemed  to  him  the  rankest  treason.  But  now  and 
again  his  clear  judgment  of  the  signs  of  the  times  could  not 
but  realise  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  decadent  Athens 
which  no  longer  responded  to  the  call  of  duty.  The  true- 
minded  patriot  was  confronted  by  something  more  than  the 

1  Dem.,  '*<*.,  I.  7.      2  Dem.,  'OA.,  II.  13.       3  Dem.,  'OA.,  III.  30,  34. 


PRINCIPLES   OF   PATRIOTISM          71 

growing  power  of  an  ambitious  despot  like  Philip.  He  was 
faced  by  lassitude,  enervation,  apathy  on  the  part  of  his 
own  countrymen — obvious  tokens  that  the  heyday  of 
Greek  democratic  life  had  passed  beyond  recall.  Perhaps 
the  orator  was  at  times  only  too  conscious  that  he  was 
fighting  a  losing  battle,  but  this  does  not  prevent  him  from 
doing  his  utmost  to  persuade  and  invigorate  his  audience, 
to  tell  them  of  their  obligations  and  drive  them  by  every 
resource  of  irony,  criticism,  and  abuse,  as  well  as  encourage- 
ment, to  fulfil  these  obligations  to  the  uttermost.  "  Restat 
amari  aliquid  " — even  in  his  loftiest  exhortations.  Though 
his  courage  will  not  admit  it,  he  is  the  spokesman  of  a 
perishing  cause.  '  Tell  me,"  he  says  in  the  First  Philippic, 
"  do  you  like  walking  about  and  asking  one  another,  Is 
there  any  news  ?  Why,  what  news  could  be  more  arresting 
than  that  a  man  of  Macedon  is  conquering  Athenians  and 
controlling  the  affairs  of  Greece  ?  Is  Philip  dead  ?  No, 
but  he  is  sick.  And  what  does  it  matter  to  you  ?  Should 
anything  befall  this  man,  you  will  soon  create  another 
Philip,  if  this  be  your  way  of  conducting  business."  l  That 
the  Athenian  character  has  changed  is  the  burden  of  a  passage 
in  the  Second  Olynthiac  :  "  This,  I  confess,  surprises  me, 
that  formerly,  Athenians,  you  fought  with  the  Lacedae- 
monians for  the  rights  of  Greece  :  rejecting  many  oppor- 
tunities of  selfish  gain,  and  desiring  to  secure  the  rights  of 
others,  you  expended  your  property  in  contributions,  and 
bore  the  brunt  of  the  battle.  Yet  now  you  are  loth  to 
serve,  slow  to  contribute,  even  in  defence  of  your  own 
possessions,  and  though  you  have  often  saved  the  other 
city-states  of  Greece,  both  collectively  and  individually, 
when  you  are  confronted  with  your  own  losses  you  sit  still. 
This  does  surprise  me."  2  The  note  of  disappointment  and 
regret  sounds  clearer  in  a  passage  in  the  Third  Philippic  : — 
"  What  has  caused  the  mischief?  There  must  be  some 
cause,  some  good  reason,  why  the  Greeks  were  so  eager  for 
liberty  then  and  now  are  only  eager  for  servitude.  There 
was  something,  men  of  Athens,  something  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people  then  which  there  is  not  now — something  which 
overcame  the  wealth  of  Persia  and  maintained  the  freedom 
of  Greece,  and  quailed  not  under  any  battle  by  land  or  sea. 
It  is  the  loss  of  this  which  has  ruined  all  and  thrown  the 
affairs  of  Greece  into  confusion."  3  In  explaining  what  this 

1  Dem.,  *iA.,  I.  10,  11.  2  Dem.,  'OA.,  II.  24. 

3  Dem.,  *IA.,  III.  36,  37. 


72    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

"  something "  is,  Demosthenes  falls  back  on  "  nothing 
subtle  or  clever,"  but  on  the  fact  that  bribery  by  the  as- 
pirants for  power  or  the  corrupters  of  Greece  was  universally 
scouted  and  detested  in  the  earlier  time  :  whereas  now  it 
is  different.  A  man  who  gets  a  bribe  is  envied  :  if  he  con- 
fesses it,  laughter  is  his  only  punishment;  but  if  any  one 
denounces  the  crime,  then  the  reward  is  public  hatred. 
Of  course,  Demosthenes  is  covertly  alluding  to  such  tainted 
patriots  as  Philocrates,  Demades  and  ^Eschines,  who  were 
notoriously  in  Philip's  pay.  But  the  taking  of  bribes  is 
only  the  external  sign  of  a  deeper-lying  malady.  It  was 
the  low  state  of  public  opinion  in  Athens,  the  code  of  morals 
she  accepted,  the  tarnished  ideals  of  conduct  and  faith  by 
which  she  was  guided,  which  revealed  the  poisoned  root 
of  her  degeneracy. 


PATRIOTISM   AND   ORATORY:    VENIZELOS   AND 
DEMOSTHENES 

§1 

MOST  of  the  sphere  covered  by  the  operations  in  the  Near 
East  is  classic  ground  for  the  scholar.  We  need  not  go  back 
as  far  as  the  Trojan  War  to  stir  a  long-dormant  interest  in 
the  Hellespont.  In  historic  times,  when  Greece  was 
fighting  the  Persians,  when  Athens  was  struggling  with 
Sparta  in  the  Peloponnesian  War,  and  when  in  the  decadence 
of  her  powers  the  City  of  the  Violet  Crown  was  trying  to 
hold  her  own  against  the  encroachments  of  Philip  of 
Macedon,  the  coast-line  of  the  ^Egean  Sea,  the  islands 
near  the  mainland  of  Asia  Minor,  the  Dardanelles,  the 
Sea  of  Marmora,  the  Propontis  rang  with  the  sounds  of 
strenuous  combat  both  by  land  and  sea.  Olynthus, 
Amphipolis,  the  river  Strymon,  the  triple  promontory  of 
Chalcidice — these  the  scholar  knows  as  well  as  the  modern 
historical  student  knows  Salonika.  Byzantium,  too,  was 
then,  as  now,  a  prize  worth  fighting  for,  and  Athens,  nervous 
about  her  corn-ships  coming  from  the  Euxine  and  utterly 
unable  to  feed  her  population  without  their  aid,  was  for 
ever  casting  anxious  eyes  towards  the  Thracian  coast  and 
her  possessions  towards  the  north-east.  The  Hellespont 
itself  saw  her  despairing  efforts  against  her  Lacedaemonian 
enemy — the  victory  of  Cynossema,  the  disastrous  defeat 
of  ^Egos  Potamos,  the  baulked  strategy  of  Alcibiades,  the 
triumph  of  Lysander.  Sixty  years  later  we  find  once 
more  Athenian  navies  manoeuvring  in  the  same  region — 
Chares,  Phocion,  and  others  doing  what  they  could  to 
prevent  Greeks  from  becoming  captive  to  the  Macedonian 
tyrant,  and  Demosthenes  urging  his  countrymen  with  all 
his  lofty  eloquence  to  shake  off  their  lethargy  and  remember 
the  glorious  deeds  of  their  forefathers.  So  far  as  the  city  of 
Olynthus  was  concerned,  Philip  succeeded  in  his  objects 
before  the  Athenians  could  be  stirred  up  to  action;  but 

73 


74    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

between  the  years  343  and  340  B.C.  Demosthenes,  at  the 
height  of  his  influence,  checkmated  his  enemy  and,  thanks 
to  the  generalship  of  Phocion,  saved  both  Perinthus  and 
Byzantium  from  Macedonian  hands.  Alas  1  two  years 
later  the  fatal  battle  of  Chaeroneia  extinguished  the  liberties 
of  Greece. 

But  not  only  is  the  soil  steeped  in  classical  memories, 
which  none  of  us  can  forget  and  which  make  us  tender 
towards  the  modern  inheritors  of  a  great  name.  The 
circumstances  of  the  time  have  thrown  up  a  statesman  who 
seems  formed  in  the  ancient  mould  of  an  Aristides,  a 
Pericles,  a  Demosthenes.  It  is  especially  the  last  with 
whom  some  comparison  may  be  sustained — partly  because 
both  Venizelos  and  Demosthenes  had  to  struggle  with  a 
very  refractory  material.  It  is  one  thing  to  lead  a  nation's 
hopes  in  the  spring-time  of  their  vigour  :  it  is  another  to 
instil  a  decadent  race  with  powers  alien  from  their  habitual 
apathy.  In  this  sense  Pericles  had  a  task  as  easy  as  that 
of  Demosthenes  was  difficult.  The  earlier  statesman  found 
a  people  plastic  to  his  purposes,  eager,  spirited,  virile,  full 
of  ambition,  and  proudly  conscious  of  their  destiny.  But 
the  latter  had  to  flog  reluctant  and  apathetic  audiences, 
only  now  and  again  capable  of  higher  moods — audiences 
which  were  amused  by  the  rhetorical  battles  of  their 
orators,  but  very  disinclined  to  go  to  battle  for  themselves. 
They  preferred  to  have  mercenaries  to  fight  for  them  while 
they  enjoyed  spectacular  displays  provided  out  of  the 
Theoric  Fund.  They  had  no  keenness,  no  native  energy — 
such  springs  of  action  seemed  to  have  been  killed  by  their 
melancholy  experiences  after  the  fatal  expedition  to  Sicily. 
The  result  is  that  while  Pericles'  great  speech  is  buoyantly 
alive  with  untapped  sources  of  strength  and  a  yet  un- 
developed national  spirit,  Demosthenes'  orations,  the 
Olynthiacs,  the  Philippics,  and  the  rest,  exhibit  the  almost 
desperate  efforts  of  a  man  to  strike  some  spark  out  of  dead 
matter — to  urge,  exhort,  goad,  upbraid,  entreat,  or  shame 
passivity  into  some  semblance  of  life. 

Venizelos  has  much  the  same  task,  for  his  lot,  too,  has 
fallen  on  unhappy  times.  To  be  a  Greek  citizen  in  the 
modern  era  is  to  be  conscious  of  great  humiliations.  He 
must  know  that  he  has  a  poor  reputation  in  Europe,  that 
the  "  Graeculus  esuriens "  tradition  still  survives.  The 
average  Greek  appears  to  be  an  unstable  creature,  greedy 
rather  than  ambitious,  cunning,  and  not  too  scrupulous 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  75 

in  business,  and  by  no  means  constitutionally  brave.     He 
does  not  remember  with  any  feeling  of  gratification  the 
war  against  Turkey  in  1897,  when  his  armies  ran  away, 
and  his  country  was  only  saved  through  the  intervention 
of  the  Powers.     It  is  true  that  he  fought  gallantly  and  well 
in  the  first  Balkan  War,  though  probably  he  had  not  very 
obstinate  opposition  to  overpower;    and  when  Bulgaria 
turned  against  her  quondam  allies,  in  the  second  Balkan 
War,  Serbia  and  Greece  conducted  their  campaign  with  no 
little   success.     But   the   recent   history   of  the   Hellenic 
Kingdom  is  not  altogether  a  creditable  one,  and  her  be- 
trayal of  Serbia  in  that  country's  anguish  and  the  record 
of  her  dealings  with  the  Entente  Powers — it  was  to  Great 
Britain,  France,  and  Russia  that  she  originally  owed  her 
independence  and  her  very  existence  as  a  kingdom — are 
not  episodes  on  which  a  patriotic  Hellene,  remembering 
his  glorious  past,  would  care  to  dwell.     It  is,  perhaps,  all 
the  more  surprising  that  out  of  a  milieu  so  unpromising  a 
statesman    of   the    calibre    of   Venizelos    should    emerge. 
There  has  been  no  one  quite  like  him  in  the  Near  East  in 
his  grasp  of  actual  and  possible  conditions  and  his  far- 
sighted  glance  into  the  future — certainly  no  politician  in 
Athens  who  has  a  tithe  of  his  ability.     The  Balkan  States 
did,  indeed,  produce  another  man  of  statesmanlike  build 
in  Stambuloff,  "  the  Balkan  Bismarck,"  to  whom  Bulgaria 
owes  more  for  her  existence  as  a  State  than  she  seems  ever 
likely   to   acknowledge.     But   Stambuloff   was   even   less 
fortunate    in    his    conditions    and     circumstances     than 
Venizelos.     And  though  he  had  helped  Ferdinand  to  ascend 
his  throne,  he  had  to  suffer  to  the  full  from  the  traditional 
ingratitude   of  kings,    being   murdered   with   Ferdinand's 
connivance — or  at  least  owing  to  his  studied  indifference — 
in  circumstances  of  peculiar  cruelty.     Venizelos,  as  we  all 
know,  is  a  native  of  Crete,  and  that  island,  which  originally 
gave  Greece  no  small  measure  of  her  culture,  and  that 
early  civilisation  which  goes  by  the  name  of  ^Egean,  has 
given  no  better  present  to  the  mainland  in  recent  times 
than  the  personality  and  influence  of  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  her  sons.     Revolutions  in  Crete  have  been 
a  constant  feature  in  modern  history,  and  Venizelos,  no 
doubt,  had  much  revolutionary  blood  in  his  veins.     But 
his  was  not  a  purely  destructive  spirit.     He  bitterly  desired 
the  redemption  of  his  native  island  from  the  murderous 
grasp  of  Turkey;    but  his  thoughts  soared  beyond  the 


76    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

confines  of  his  home  to  the  welfare  and  glory  of  Hellas, 
cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined  by  Ottoman  pressure. 

Two  ideas,  above  all,  animated  his  policy,  and  when  he 
was  called  to  Athens  to  direct  the  action  of  the  State  he 
saw  some  chance  of  carrying  them  into  effect.  One  of 
these  was  the  independence  of  Greece,  viewed  in  the 
largest  sense — that  is,  the  incorporation  within  a  free 
Hellenic  community  of  all  the  scattered  elements  distributed 
in  Macedonia,  the  JEgean  Isles,  and  the  coastland  of  Asia 
Minor,  unhampered  by  the  stupid  and  cruel  despotism  of 
the  Turk.  And  to  this  end  he  was  one  of  the  main  agents 
— if  not  the  principal  agent  of  all — in  the  formation  of  the 
League  of  Balkan  States,  which  showed  to  an  astonished 
Europe  the  marvellous  phantom  of  a  united  and  con- 
cordant Balkan  Peninsula.  It  was  a  grandiose  conception 
only  possible  to  a  large-minded  and  idealistic  statesman; 
but  it  could  not  endure,  because  it  was  based  on  the 
theoretical  suppression  of  scarcely  veiled  and  obstinate 
rivalries.  Nevertheless,  it  lasted  long  enough  to  defeat 
Turkey — to  the  surprise  and  indignation  of  the  Germanic 
Empires,  which  assumed  that  the  Ottoman  Empire  would 
prevail  over  its  loosely  associated  antagonists.  The  second 
idea  of  Venizelos  related  to  the  inner  structure  of  Hellas 
herself.  Greece  was  to  gain  the  full  development  of  her 
polity  and  the  firm  establishment  of  her  independence  by 
a  monarchy,  which  was  to  be  strictly  constitutional,  giving 
scope  and  liberty  to  the  will  of  her  citizens.  Venizelos, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  saved  the  monarchy  when  it  was  in 
considerable  peril  from  an  arrogant  military  party,  and 
since  the  King  of  the  Hellenes  owed  to  the  statesman  his 
security,  the  least  he  could  do  to  show  his  gratitude  was 
strictly  to  abide  within  the  limits  of  constitutionalism. 
In  the  recent  struggles  Venizelos'  complaint  against  his 
Sovereign  is  that  he  has  taken  matters  into  his  own  hands, 
against  the  will  of  the  great  majority  of  his  subjects,  and 
events  seem  to  confirm  this  view.  To  the  mind  of  the 
Cretan  statesman,  the  manifest  destiny  of  Greece  is  to  join 
the  Entente  Powers  and  to  throw  over  that  superstitious 
reverence  for  Teutonic  militarism  which  appears  to  have 
so  deeply  impressed  some  of  the  Greek  generals — to  say 
nothing  of  King  Constantine.  At  the  moment  of  writing l 

1  Recent  events  have  obviously  modified  and  in  some  respects  improved 
the  situation.  This  essay  was  written  before  the  departure  of  King 
Constantine. 


PATRIOTISM  AND  ORATORY  77 

it  looks  as  if  Hellas  intended  to  pin  her  faith  to  the 
patriotic  policy  of  her  great  leader,  Eleutherios  Veni- 
zelos.  The  only  point  is — and  it  must  be  a  matter  of  deep 
anxiety  for  all  sincere  patriots — whether  it  is  not  already 
too  late.  What  sort  of  future  Destiny  will  reserve  for  Greece, 
who  is  so  tardy  in  her  resolve  and  did  not  freely  give  her- 
self when  the  gift  would  have  been  precious,  is  another 
matter. 


§2 

"  Too  late  "  is  a  constant  form  of  reproach  in  the  mouth 
of  Demosthenes.  In  the  first  Philippic  he  contrasts  the 
prompt  punctuality  with  which  all  arrangements  are  made 
for  the  Panathenaic  and  Dionysian  festivals  and  the  slack- 
ness and  dilatoriness  of  the  preparations  for  war.  "  In  the 
business  of  war  all  is  irregular,  unsettled,  indefinite,"  "  all 
your  armaments  are  after  the  time."  x  "  The  efforts  of 
Athens  are  as  awkward  as  those  of  an  unskilled  boxer, 
who,  when  he  is  struck  anywhere,  immediately  transfers 
his  hands  to  the  spot  where  the  blow  has  fallen,  and  never 
watches  to  see  where  the  next  blow  is  likely  to  come."  2 
Clever  makers  of  war  should  not  follow  circumstances,  but 
be  in  advance  of  them.  Or  again,  in  the  third  Philippic : 
"  It  is  disgraceful  to  exclaim  when  something  has  happened, 
'  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  We  ought  to  have  acted 
in  this  way  and  refrained  from  acting  in  that.'  It  is 
now  too  late.  Many  things  could  the  Olynthians  mention 
now  which,  if  foreseen  at  the  time,  would  have  prevented 
their  destruction."  3  Possibly  similar  thoughts  have  passed 
through  the  mind  of  Venizelos  as  he  surveyed  the  pro- 
crastinating habit  of  his  countrymen,  and  the  pendulum- 
like  swing  with  which  they  have  oscillated  between  the 
Teutonic  and  the  Entente  Powers.  To  be  always  behind- 
hand with  their  decisions  may  leave  them  high  and  dry, 
without  friends  and  without  claims,  when  the  ultimate  issue 
is  reached. 

Both  Demosthenes  and  Venizelos  would  accept  Mazzini's 
definition  of  a  nationality  :  "  The  assertion  of  the  indi- 
viduality of  a  human  group  called  by  its  geographical 
position,  its  traditions,  and  its  language  to  fulfil  a  special 

1  Dem.,  *ix.,  i.  40.  a  Ibid.,  46-7. 

Dem.,  *A.,  iii.  81. 


78    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

function  in  the  European  work  of  civilisation."  l  That  is 
precisely  what  Demosthenes  believed  about  Athens.  She 
was  called  by  her  past  glory,  her  faith  in  freedom,  her 
present  influence  to  put  herself  at  the  head  of  the  Greek 
race — wherever  they  might  be  located,  at  Olynthus, 
Amphipolis,  Byzantium  or  in  the  ^Egean  Isles,  or  on  the 
mainland — and  make  head  against  despotism,  militarism, 
barbarism.  Philip  of  Macedon  was  a  barbarian,  and  bar- 
barians must  not  rule  the  free  commonwealth  of  Greece. 
Philip,  too,  was  an  autocrat,  and  republics  must  have  no 
dealing  with  autocracies.  There  is  a  striking  passage  in 
the  second  Philippic  on  this  point.  Demosthenes  is  quoting 
from  a  speech  he  made  to  the  Messenians  on  the  occasion 
of  one  of  his  embassies  to  the  Peloponnese  to  form  a  com- 
/  bination  of  States  against  Philip.  "  In  truth,  too  close 
connections  with  despots  are  not  safe  for  republics.  .  .  . 
You  behold  Philip  a  dispenser  of  gifts  and  promises  : 
pray,  if  you  are  wise,  that  you  may  never  know  him  for  a 
cheat  and  a  deceiver.  There  are  manifold  contrivances 
for  the  guarding  and  defending  of  cities,  as  ramparts, 
walls,  trenches,  and  the  like  :  these  are  all  made  with  hands 
and  involve  expense  :  but  there  is  one  common  safeguard 
in  the  nature  of  prudent  men,  which  is  a  good  security  for 
all,  but  especially  for  democracies  against  despots.  What 
do  I  mean  ?  Mistrust.  Keep  this,  hold  to  this,  preserve 
this  only  and  you  can  never  be  injured.  What  do  ye 
desire?  Freedom.  Then  see  ye  not  that  Philip's  very 
titles  are  at  variance  therewith?  Every  king  and  despot 
is  a  foe  to  freedom,  an  antagonist  to  laws.  Will  ye  not 
beware  lest,  seeking  deliverance  from  war,  ye  find  a 
master?"  2  The  words  are  singularly  applicable  to  the 
present  situation.  Greece  is  not  now  a  republic;  she  is 
a  constitutional  monarchy.  But  she  desires  to  be  free  and 
independent,  to  hold  her  own  against  the  patent  tyranny 
of  the  Ottoman  Empire  or  the  insidious  devices  of  a  pan- 
Germanic  league.  Can  we  not  imagine  a  Greek  patriot 
of  the  present  day  telling  his  countrymen  that  they  know 
Germany  as  "  a  dispenser  of  gifts  and  promises,"  and 
praying  that  they  may  not  know  it  as  "a  cheat  and  a 
deceiver?"  Has  not  Venizelos  bidden  Greece  beware  of 
the  gifts  of  the  Danai  and  cultivate  a  wise  and  prudent 
mistrust?  Above  all,  is  not  the  warning  more  than  ever 

1  Quoted  in  Europe  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.     By  E.  Lipson.     P.  264. 
(A.  &  C.  Black.     1916.)  2  Dem.t  *iA.,  ii.  23-7. 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  79 

necessary  in  Athens  at  the  present  day  "  lest,  seeking 
deliverance  from  war,  they  may  find  a  master  ? "  An 
excessive  shrinking  from  war,  an  excessive  devotion  to 
neutrality,  may  lead  to  something  hardly  distinguishable 
from  servitude. 


§3 

In  a  previous  article  I  tried  to  define  what  Demosthenes' 
task  was.  The  main  points  are  abundantly  clear,  as  they 
are  emphasised  again  and  again  in  the  Olynthiacs,  the 
Philippics,  the  De  Chersoneso,  and  other  orations.  Athens 
has  the  titular  right  to  defend  Greece  against  all  bar- 
barians, and  especially  against  the  menace  of  a  grasping 
and  ambitious  King  of  Macedon,  whose  diplomacy  is  based 
on  deception,  on  a  prodigal  use  of  bribes,  and  on  the  sinister 
service  of  spies.  Athens  must  also  help  the  Greek  States 
against  their  own  weaknesses,  and  especially  that  love  of 
intestine  strife  which  has  already  ruined  so  many  hopeful 
democracies.  But,  above  all,  Athens  must  purge  herself 
from  her  own  manifold  shortcomings — her  want  of  energy, 
her  love  of  spectacles,  her  trust  in  venal  orators,  her 
reliance  on  mercenaries.  She  must  arm  her  own  citizens, 
contribute  to  the  equipment  of  efficient  fleets,  and  rise  to 
the  height  of  her  own  responsibilities  and  duties.  For 
patriotism  is  not  only  valuable  as  a  material  defence  against 
danger  :  it  is  an  ethical  obligation.  Indeed,  the  basing  of 
all  political  action  on  morals,  the  large  conception  of  a  free 
democracy  finding  its  highest  spiritual  duty  in  self-develop- 
ment and  the  guidance  of  less  advanced  States,  are  favourite 
tenets  with  Demosthenes,  on  which  he  was  never  tired  of 
laying  stress. 

It  is  our  good  fortune  to  possess  in  Demosthenes' 
Oration  on  the  Crown  a  carefully  composed  apology, 
drawn  up  some  time  after  the  actual  facts,  for  the  policy 
pursued  by  the  Athenian  statesman.  Apology  is  hardly 
the  right  word.  It  is  a  proud  vindication  of  statesmanship, 
of  which  the  speaker  has  no  intention  of  being  ashamed,  a 
string  of  documentary  evidences  to  prove  that  what  he  did 
was  done  with  the  best  motives,  and  sometimes  with  the 
happiest  results.  Ctesiphon  had  proposed  to  give  a  crown 
to  Demosthenes ;  ^schines  opposed  the  gift  on  the  ground 
of  illegality — for  various  technical  reasons  with  which  we  are 
not  concerned.  But  ^Eschines  also  took  the  opportunity 


80    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

of  criticising  and  abusing  his  great  rival,  in  order  to 
prove  that  he  was  not  worthy  of  such  an  honour,  and 
that  gave  the  defendant,  as  we  may  call  him,  his  chance. 
Weak,  so  far  as  the  legal  arguments  were  concerned, 
Demosthenes  was  strong  in  defence  of  his  statesmanship; 
and  no  better  proof  could  be  given  that  he  retained  to  the 
full  the  confidence  of  his  countrymen  than  the  fact  that 
even  after  the  disastrous  battle  of  Chaeroneia  he  was 
selected  to  deliver  the  funeral  oration  over  the  dead 
warriors.  Or,  if  we  need  corroborative  evidence,  it  may 
be  found  in  the  issue  of  the  duel  between  the  two  orators, 
^schines,  failing  to  get  the  adequate  number  of  votes, 
went  into  exile.  Demosthenes,  securing  the  verdict  for 
his  client,  Ctesiphon,  won  a  decisive  victory  for  himself. 

What  are  the  main  criticisms  which  might  be  levelled 
at  Demosthenes'  policy?  They  are  tolerably  obvious. 
The  policy,  whatever  might  be  said  of  its  intrinsic  merits, 
was  ill-timed.  To  bring  about  a  war  between  Philip  and 
Athens  was  ruinous,  because  circumstances  made  it  very 
unlikely  that  the  democracy"  would  have  any  chance 
against  the  despotic  monarchy.  What  might  have  been 
possible  in  the  times  of  Pericles  was  impossible  after  the 
many  disasters  which  had  befallen  Athens  and  had  killed 
her  energies  and  ambitions.  Moreover,  it  was  not  a  good 
policy  in  itself.  It  would  have  been  wiser  to  keep  friends 
with  Philip  and  make  use  of  him  in  the  quarrels  which 
divided  the  Greek  States.  Men  like  Eubulus  and  Phocion 
formed  a  more  correct  estimate  of  the  needs  of  the  situation. 
^Eschines  was  better  advised  when  he  tried  to  establish 
friendly  relations  with  Philip's  Court.  Lastly,  and  most 
important  of  all,  Demosthenes'  policy  was  an  acknowledged 
failure.  It  did  not  keep  back  the  rising  tide  of  Macedonian 
power.  It  did  not  save  Athens  from  defeat.  Such  are 
the  main  counts  in  the  indictment,  and  it  is  interesting  to 
observe  how  the  statesman  meets  them.  He  lifts  the 
discussion  on  to  a  different  and  a  higher  plane.  He  does 
not  so  much  argue  that  he  was  right  as  that  his  policy  was 
inevitable,  given  the  past  history  and  the  present  reputation 
of  Athens.  He  does  not  controvert  the  facts,  but  main- 
tains that,  even  if  they  had  been  known  beforehand,  his 
policy,  and  every  true  patriot's  policy,  would  have  been 
unaltered.  It  is  true  that  he  denies  in  one  respect  the 
failure.  He  points  to  the  successes  gained  from  343  to 
340  B.C.,  when  the  sieges  of  Perinthus  and  Byzantium 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  81 

were  raised  and  Philip's  forces  were  driven  out  of  the 
Chersonese.  But  even  if  all  the  efforts  ended  in  failure, 
that  does  not  prove  that  they  were  wrong.  Material  and 
tangible  success  is  not  the  only  criterion ;  there  is  a  higher 
standpoint  from  which  strategy  and  diplomacy  are  viewed 
in  relation  to  a  nation's  ideals  and  not  merely  in  reference 
to  their  immediate  results.  Besides,  the  State  rewards 
its  officers  because  they  have  done  the  best  they  could 
under  given  conditions.  Success  lies  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods.  It  is  enough  for  a  patriot  to  do  his  duty. 

Here  is  an  illustrative  passage  :  "  What  should  the 
commonwealth  have  done  when  she  saw  Philip  establishing 
an  empire  and  dominion  over  Greece  ?  Or  what  was  your 
statesman  to  advise  or  move — I,  a  statesman  at  Athens, 
who  knew  that  from  the  earliest  time  until  the  day  of  my 
mounting  the  platform  our  country  had  ever  striven  for 
precedency  and  honour  and  renown,  and  poured  out  more 
blood  and  treasure  for  the  sake  of  glory  and  the  general 
weal  than  the  rest  of  the  Greeks  had  done  for  their  own 
special  interests  ?  .  .  .  Hardly  any  one  will  venture  to  say 
this  :  that  it  became  a  man  bred  at  Pella,  then  an  obscure 
and  inconsiderable  place,  to  possess  such  inborn  mag- 
nanimity as  to  aspire  to  the  mastery  of  Greece  and  formu- 
late this  ambition  in  his  mind,  whilst  you  who  are  Athenians, 
day  after  day  in  speeches  and  dramas  reminded  of  the  virtue 
of  your  ancestors,  should  have  been  so  naturally  base  as 
of  your  own  free  will  and  accord  to  surrender  to  Philip 
the  liberty  of  Greece.  No  man  will  say  this  !  " 

Or  again  :  "  Mark  the  line  of  my  policy  at  that  crisis; 
do  not  rail  at  the  event.  The  end  of  all  things  is  what  the 
Deity  pleases  :  it  is  his  line  of  policy  which  shows  the 
judgment  of  the  statesman.  Do  not  then  impute  it  as  a 
crime  to  me  that  Philip  chanced  to  conquer  in  battle  : 
that  issue  depended,  not  on  me,  but  on  God.  Prove  that 
I  failed  to  adopt  all  measures  humanly  feasible — that  I 
failed  to  carry  them  out  honestly  and  diligently  and  with 
exertions  beyond  my  strength,  or  that  my  enterprises 
themselves  were  not  honourable  and  worthy  of  the  State 
and  necessary.  Show  me  this  and  you  can  accuse  me  as 
soon  as  you  like."  2 

Or  once  more,  with  a  certain  note  of  passion,  as  though 
success  were  nothing  and  policy  everything,  Demosthenes 
utters  what  he  himself  calls  the  paradox  that  even  fore- 

1  Dem.,  nept  rov  <rr«t>.,  80-3.  2  Ibid.,  245. 

G 


82    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

knowledge  of  the  event  could  not  alter,  and  ought  not  to 
alter,  what  was  the  right  course  to  pursue.  "  Never, 
never  can  you  have  done  wrong  in  undertaking  the  conflict 
for  the  freedom  and  safety  of  all !  I  swear  it  by  your  fore- 
fathers— those  who  fronted  the  peril  at  Marathon,  those 
who  ranged  themselves  in  battle  array  at  Plataea,  those  who 
fought  at  sea  at  Salamis  and  those  at  Artemisium,  and 
many  other  brave  men  who  sleep  in  the  public  monuments 
— all  of  whom  alike,  as  being  worthy  of  the  same  honour, 
the  country  buried,  not  only  the  successful  or  the  victorious  ! 
And  justly  so.  For  the  duty  of  brave  men  had  been  done 
by  all :  their  fortune  had  been  decided  by  the  Deity."  x 
This  is  the  celebrated  oath  which  has  been  so  much  praised 
both  in  ancient  and  modern  times,  by  Longinus  as  much  as 
by  Lord  Brougham.  The  choiceness  of  the  phrasing,  the 
spirit  of  the  rhetoric,  and  the  music  of  the  sentences  can 
only  be  appreciated  in  the  original  Greek. 

I  must  quote  another  passage,  because  it  succinctly 
defines  the  duties  of  a  statesman  and  constitutes  Demos- 
thenes' justification. 

"  I  do  not  deprecate,"  says  the  orator,  "  the  severest 
scrutiny  in  those  things  for  which  a  statesman  is  properly 
responsible.  What  are  a  statesman's  functions?  To 
observe  things  in  the  beginning  :  to  foresee  and  foretell 
them  to  others.  This.  I  have  done.  Again  :  Wherever 
he  finds  delay,  backwardness,  ignorance,  jealousies — vices 
inherent  and  unavoidable  in  all  communities — to  contract 
them  into  the  narrowest  compass;  on  the  other  hand, 
to  promote  unanimity  and  friendship  and  zeal  in  the 
discharge  of  duty.  All  this  too  I  have  performed;  and 
no  one  can  discover  the  least  neglect  on  my  part."  2  If 
Philip  has  conquered,  his  success  is  due  to  his  army  and 
his  wholesale  methods  of  bribery  and  corruption.  Demos- 
thenes was  not  a  general,  so  he  could  not  be  responsible 
for  the  defeat  of  Athenian  troops,  while  as  for  bribes,  his 
record  was  immaculate.  And  therefore  the  statesman  is 
able  to  utter  his  well-known  boast :  "  Had  there  been  in 
each  of  the  Greek  cities  one  such  man  as  I  was  in  my 
station  among  you;  or,  rather,  had  Thessaly  possessed 
one  single  man,  and  Arcadia  one,  of  the  same  sentiments  as 
myself,  none  of  the  Greeks  either  beyond  or  within  Ther- 
mopylae would  have  suffered  their  present  calamities  :  all 
would  have  been  free  and  independent."  3  It  was  the 
1  Ibid.,  263.  2  Ibid.,  306-7.  3  Ibid.,  376. 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  83 

isolation  of  Demosthenes  which  made  him  so  powerless 
in  the  various  crises  with  which  he  was  confronted.  May 
we  not  say  that  Venizelos'  impotence — when  he  has  had  to 
stand  aside  and  let  matters  take  their  own  course — has 
been  due  to  a  similar  cause?  If  only  there  had  been 
another  Venizelos  at  Belgrade  or  Sofia  ! 


§4 

There  are,  indeed,  many  valuable  points  urged  in  the 
Speech  on  the  Crown  which  make  it  a  storehouse  of  maxims 
and  lessons  for  the  statesman  and  the  patriot.  Let  me 
enumerate  a  few.  There  is  the  difference  between  states- 
men true  and  false,  the  distinction  between  the  ov^ovlo<; 
and  the  ovxoqpdvTrjs.  The  one  pursues  strictly  selfish  ends ; 
the  other  aims  at  the  interests  of  the  State.  There  is 
a  vivid  passage  on  treachery  and  its  wages;  traitors  and 
their  inevitable  doom  in  the  contempt  of  mankind  and 
the  neglect  of  those  who  bought  them.  There  are  many 
references  to  the  higher  patriotism,  the  patriotism  of  self- 
sacrifice,  the  pursuit  of  large  ideals,  as  evinced  in  the 
lofty  generosity  of  Athens  towards  her  rivals  and  the 
baseness  of  Philip.  There  are  the  indefeasible  claims  of  a 
free  State  and  the  rights  of  a  freeman  in  a  republic  to  die 
free.  There  are  useful  hints  on  the  real  value  of  an  orator, 
and  the  justification  of  a  certain  vehemence  of  speech  when 
the  commonwealth's  main  interests  are  in  jeopardy.  I 
have  already  alluded  to  Demosthenes'  discussion  of  the 
relations  between  good  fortune — a  purely  external  thing — 
and  the  essential  merits  of  a  policy,  which  goes  deep  into 
the  psychology  of  a  State  and  its  citizens.  Success  is  only 
a  very  rough  test  of  virtue  in  a  statesman.  He  must  be 
judged  in  the  light  of  his  highest  aims  and  his  own  char- 
acter. Nor  yet  is  it  a  fair  criticism  to  compare  him  with 
his  predecessors  and  ask  if  he  is  as  great  or  as  good  as  they. 
For  the  circumstances  may  be  so  different  as  to  alter  all 
the  values.  It  is  unjust  to  inquire  whether  Demosthenes 
presented  as  big  a  figure  to  history  as  Pericles,  or  whether 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  is  as  great  a  War  Minister  as  Pitt. 

All  these  points  and  many  others  are  invested  with 
the  singularly  engaging  charm  of  Demosthenes'  oratory. 
That  was  no  natural  gift :  it  was  won  by  stern  labour 
and  a  merciless  discipline.  He  had  to  struggle  against 
many  disabilities — a  weak  voice,  a  not  altogether  engaging 


84    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

personality,  an  awkwardness  of  gesture  and  delivery. 
Like  St.  Paul,  his  enemies  could  say  that  his  bodily  presence 
was  weak  and  his  speech  contemptible.  He  was  laughed  at 
as  a  water-drinker  by  Philocrates  and  ^Eschines,  and 
declared  on  that  account  to  be  a  churlish  and  morose 
fellow.  He  tells  us  so  himself  at  the  end  of  the  second 
Philippic,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  many  jokes  about  his 
abstemiousness  were  current  at  Athens.  But  by  dint  of 
hard  work  he — like  Abraham  Lincoln,  whom  in  certain 
points  he  resembles — conquered  all  his  difficulties  of 
speech  and  manner,  and  became,  with  the  aid  of  one  or 
two  friendly  actors,  the  most  accomplished  speaker  of  his 
own  and  other  ages.  Demosthenes'  high  claims  to  elo- 
quence, acknowledged  by  every  competent  critic,  rest  on 
certain  qualities,  of  which  the  chief  are  naturalness  and 
simplicity.  This  simplicity  is,  of  course,  the  last  word  of 
art,  not  the  simplicity  of  poverty  or  foolishness.  When  we 
read  the  Philippics  and  the  Olynthiacs,  and  above  all  the 
Speech  on  the  Crown,  we  are  conscious  that  we  are  in 
the  hands  of  a  master  of  his  craft.  When  he  chooses,  the 
orator  knows  how  to  state  his  case  with  absolute  clarity; 
and  when  he  indulges  in  a  burst  of  rhetoric  and  gives  us 
what  we  call  a  purple  passage,  he  realises  the  effect  of 
contrast  by  a  series  of  simple  sentences,  pellucid,  straight- 
forward, and  without  a  trace  of  involution  or  emotional 
verbiage.  He  is  an  adept,  too,  in  his  narrative  style — 
witness  the  wonderful  bit  of  descriptive  prose  in  the  Speech 
on  the  Crown  on  Philip's  capture  of  Elateia.1  "  It  was 
evening,  and  a  messenger  came  to  tell  us  that  Elateia  was 
taken" — a  plain  statement  of  fact  which  is  worked  up 
into  a  passage  as  vivid  and  illuminating  as  anything  to  be 
found  in  Thucydides  or  Gibbon.  There  is  nothing  that  is 
tawdry  or  merely  theatrical  in  Demosthenes;  if  we  want 
to  find  that  we  must  look  to  other  contemporary  orators 
— to  ^Eschines,  perhaps,  who,  though  he  undoubtedly 
possessed  the  grand  manner  and  was  an  accomplished 
speaker  on  the  traditional  lines,  was  tempted  sometimes 
to  trust  to  his  fine  voice  and  overdo  his  rhetoric.  Demos- 
thenes was  disconcerting,  because  he  used  original  effects; 
he  could  be  simply  conversational  in  style  and  make  an 
appeal  by  unstudied  talk,  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  soar  into 
the  empyrean.  Even  the  virulent  abuse  which  we  find 
in  many  of  his  speeches,  and  notably  in  "  the  Crown," 
1  Dem.,  iiept  TOW  o-T€cj>.,  218. 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  85 

and  which,  without  doubt,  jars  on  our  sensibilities,  probably 
struck  an  Athenian  audience  differently.  At  all  events, 
it  is  confined  to  those  whom  the  orator  looked  upon  as 
traitors  to  Hellas.  Is  he  ever  high-flown  ?  Perhaps ;  but 
it  is  generally  for  a  purpose.  And  he  is  always  the  master 
of  his  own  rhetoric.  He  is  not  "  intoxicated  with  the 
exuberance  of  his  own  verbosity,"  as  Disraeli  said  of  his 
great  rival.  He  shapes  his  style  to  predetermined  ends. 


§5 

It  was  suggested  just  now  that  there  was  some  resem- 
blance between  Demosthenes  and  Abraham  Lincoln.  We 
must  not  overstrain  such  analogies.  All  the  men  who 
work  for  the  redemption  or  salvation  of  their  countries 
have  certain  traits  in  common,  because  they  appeal  to 
such  universal  passions  as  the  love  of  freedom  and  hatred 
of  slavery.  In  this  sense  Mazzini,  Cavour,  Hampden, 
Washington,  Venizelos,  Lincoln  join  hands  with  Demos- 
thenes. But  between  the  last  two  there  were — perhaps 
superficial — likenesses.  Both  Lincoln  and  Demosthenes 
in  their  training  in  oratory  had  to  contend  against  a 
natural  awkwardness  of  gesture,  but,  nevertheless,  be- 
came accomplished  orators.  In  the  early  life  of  both 
there  were  struggles  and  difficulties,  steadily  overcome 
by  a  doggedness  of  disposition,  which  deepened  as  expe- 
rience grew  and  mastery  was  attained,  into  a  splendid 
tenacity  of  purpose.  Demosthenes'  policy  was  thought 
out  from  the  beginning  and  remained  consistent  with 
itself;  Lincoln  never  wavered  in  his  resolute  champion- 
ship for  the  Union.  Both  were  misinterpreted  and 
maligned.  Both  appealed  to  the  highest  instincts  of  the 
people  with  whom  they  had  to  deal.  And  both  died  a 
tragic  death — Lincoln,  as  we  know,  succumbing  to  the 
pistol  of  an  assassin  in  a  theatre,  and  Demosthenes  taking 
poison  in  a  temple  to  avoid  falling  into  the  hands  of  his 
enemies. 

There  is  no  question  that,  howeVer  differently  we  may 
interpret  Lincoln's  somewhat  subtle  policy  as  to  Slavery 
and  the  Union,  he  looked  at  all  such  matters — just  as 
Demosthenes  regarded  his  particular  problems — from  a 
high  ethical  standpoint.  The  Greek  orator  might  say 
that  a  man  was  not  born  for  himself,  but  for  the  State, 


86    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

the  highest  interests  of  which  he  was  bound  to  subserve, 
and  that  therefore  patriotism  was  not  merely  a  civic,  but 
a  moral  obligation.  And  the  American  statesman's  atti- 
tude towards  current  controversies  was  equally  coloured 
by  the  largest  ethical  considerations.  "  To  him  the 
national  unity  of  America,  with  the  Constitution  which 
symbolised  it,  was  the  subject  of  pride  and  of  devotion 
just  in  so  far  as  it  had  embodied,  and  could  hereafter  more 
fully  embody,  certain  principles  of  permanent  value  to 
mankind.  For  the  preservation  of  an  America  which 
he  could  value  more,  say,  than  men  value  the  Argentine 
Republic,  he  was  better  prepared  than  any  other  man  to 
pay  any  possible  price.  But  he  definitely  refused  to 
preserve  the  Union  by  what  in  his  estimation  would  have 
been  the  real  surrender  of  the  principles  which  had  made 
Americans  a  distinct  and  self-respecting  nation."  l  "  Lin- 
coln's affection  for  his  own  country  and  its  institutions  is 
dependent  upon  a  wider  cause  of  human  good,  and  is  not  a 
whit  the  less  intense  for  that."  2  The  Declaration  of 
Independence  seemed  to  him  to  have  given  liberty,  not 
merely  to  America,  but  to  the  world  for  all  future  time. 
By  the  inculcation  of  its  principles  "  the  weight  would  in 
due  time  be  lifted  from  the  shoulders  of  all  men." 

It  is  this  depth  of  soul,  this  profundity  of  character  and 
temperament,  which  give  to  Lincoln's  speeches  a  dis- 
tinction and  also  a  beauty  of  their  own.  They  are  not  works 
of  conscious  art,  though  there  is  every  reason  for  believing 
that  their  author  spent  much  time  and  labour  over  a  dis- 
cipline in  oratory.  They  carefully  avoid  all  the  well- 
known  expedients  of  a  rhetorician  on  a  platform — for 
instance,  they  very  rarely  end  with  a  peroration — and  yet 
Lincoln  knew  how  to  appeal  to  an  audience,  mainly  because 
he  understood  the  people  and  had  a  curiously  intimate 
sympathy  with  the  popular  mind.  They  are  full  of  coarse 
and  common  expressions — "  the  whole  thing  is  as  simple 
as  figuring  out  the  weight  of  three  small  hogs  "  is  one  of 
his  phrases — and  still  his  language  can  be  as  austere  and 
stately  and  graceful  as  that  of  any  of  the  practised  orators 
of  the  world.  Here  is  an  example  in  the  First  Inaugural 
in  1861,  when  Lincoln  had  just  been  made  President  and 
the  burning  question  was  whether  there  would  be  war 

1  AbraJmm  Lincoln,  by  Lord  Charnwood,  pp.  121-2  (Constable). 

2  Ibid.,  p.  183. 


PATRIOTISM  AND   ORATORY  87 

between  North  and  South.  "  In  your  hands,  my  dis- 
satisfied fellow-countrymen,  and  not  in  mine,  is  the 
momentous  issue  of  civil  war.  .  .  .  We  are  not  enemies, 
but  friends.  We  must  not  be  enemies.  Though  passion 
may  have  strained,  it  must  not  break  our  bonds  of  affec- 
tion. The  mystic  chords  of  memory,  stretching  from  every 
battlefield  and  patriot  grave  to  every  living  heart  and 
hearthstone  all  over  this  broad  land,  will  yet  swell  the 
chorus  of  Union,  when  again  touched,  as  they  surely  will 
be,  by  the  better  angels  of  our  nature."  1  Here  we  have 
imagination,  grace,  a  certain  amount  of  conventional 
sentiment  (as  in  "  better  angels  of  our  nature  "),  but  also 
a  strain  of  pathos,  a  touch  of  delicacy,  a  high  refinement 
which  are  wholly  Lincoln's.  But  Lincoln's  masterpiece 
is  his  little  speech  over  the  fallen  on  the  field  of  Gettysburg. 
As  this  article  has  been  occupied  with  orators  and  oratory, 
it  may  fitly  close  with  a  speech  almost  perfect  of  its 
kind. 

"  Fourscore-and-seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought 
forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty 
and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created 
equal.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so 
dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great 
battlefield  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a 
portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting-place  for  those  who 
here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is 
altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 
But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate — we  cannot 
consecrate — we  cannot  hallow — this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here  have  consecrated 
it  far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or  to  detract.  The 
world  will  little  note  nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here, 
but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us, 
the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly 
advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the 
great  task  remaining  before  us — that  from  these  honoured 
dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which 
they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion  :  that  we  here 
highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain ; 
that  this  nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of 

1  Quoted  in  Lord  Charnwood's  Lincoln,  p.  206. 


88    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

freedom;     and   that  government   of  the   people,   by  the 
people,  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth."  l 

Demosthenes  assuredly  would  not  have  disowned  so 
beautiful  a  passage.  With  some  such  words  as  these  might 
he  have  made  his  funeral  oration  over  the  dead  warriors 
on  the  field  of  Chseroneia. 

1  Lord  Charnwood's  Lincoln,  pp.  360-1. 


SAPPHO  AND  ASPASIA 

§  1 

SAPPHO  AND  ASPASIA,  learned  women  of  Greece,  are  not 
legendary,  like  the  Homeric  figures,  Andromache,  Hecuba, 
Helen,  Penelope,  and  Nausicaa  :  they  are  historical.  And 
yet  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  be  sure  of  the  precise 
character  which  they  possess,  and  the  influence  which 
they  wield.  Alike  in  many  respects — alike  especially  in 
this,  that  they  set  an  early  example  of  feminine  enlighten- 
ment, of  emancipation  from  prejudice — they  are  also  alike 
in  the  fact  that  they  were  both  the  victims  of  contemporary 
witticisms.  It  is  too  little  to  speak  merely  of  the  gibes 
of  the  wits.  A  kind  of  crusade  was  entered  upon  to 
destroy  their  character,  to  deride  their  pretensions,  to 
throw  scorn  upon  their  names.  It  was  especially  the 
Attic  comic  dramatists,  Eupolis,  Cratinus,  and  Aristo- 
phanes, whose  trade  was  to  make  fun  of  great  figures  of 
the  past;  and  they  assuredly  did  not  spare  either  Sappho 
or  Aspasia.  So  that  when  we  read  about  these  women, 
we  are  trying  to  delineate  their  characters  as  viewed  through 
a  veil  of  prejudice  and  contumely.  Moreover,  their  apolo- 
gists and  champions  have  in  a  certain  fashion  added  to 
our  perplexity,  for  they  availed  themselves  of  the  notori- 
ous device  of  asserting  that  there  were,  in  reality,  two,  if 
not  more  persons  bearing  the  same  name.  Consequently 
we  find  that  there  is  one  Sappho  who  is  called  "  of  Mytilene," 
and  another  Sappho  who  is  styled  "  of  Eresos,"  the  first 
being  a  pattern  of  virtue,  and  the  second  no  better  than 
she  should  be.  The  same  device,  also,  was  practised  with 
regard  to  Aspasia,  although  it  did  not  attract  quite  the 
same  amount  of  attention.  Aspasia,  doubtless,  was  a  very 
ordinary  name  for  ladies  who,  for  whatever  reason,  might 
have  earned  the  title  of  "  well-beloved."  Thus,  though 
these  are  real  characters,  there  clings  about  them  a  great 
deal  that  is  legendary.  Having  earned  an  unenviable 
notoriety,  the  most  contradictory  assertions  became  rife 
among  their  enemies  and  their  apologists. 

89 


90    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

But  though  there  is  this  much  in  common  between 
Sappho  and  Aspasia,  that  both  of  them,  like  some  of  the 
leaders  of  the  Women's  Movement  in  modern  times, 
attracted  unfavourable  attention  from  facile  wits,  the 
conditions  under  which  they  lived  were  essentially  different. 
In  the  first  case,  that  of  Sappho,  we  have  to  deal  with  the 
social  conditions  of  the  JEolian  Greeks,  somewhere  in  the 
seventh  and  sixth  centuries  before  Christ.  And  those  con- 
ditions are  in  effective  contrast  with  the  times  of  Pericles 
and  the  beginnings  of  Athenian  supremacy  in  the  fifth 
century.  We  do  not  quite  know  how  it  came  about,  but 
it  is,  nevertheless,  clear  that  the  Ionian  States,  of  which 
Athens  was  one,  took  a  very  different  view  of  women  from 
that  entertained  by  kindred  populations,  such  as  the 
Dorians,  and  the  JEolians,  both  in  Asia  Minor  and  the 
southern  part  of  Italy,  which  was  called  Magna  Graecia. 
The  lonians  kept  their  women  in  rigid  seclusion,  as  the 
property  and  toys  of  their  lords  and  masters ;  but  in  some 
of  the  towns  on  the  sea-coasts  of  Asia  Minor  belonging 
either  to  the  ^Eolian  or  to  the  Dorian  family,  women  were 
allowed  a  very  large  amount  of  liberty.  Women  met  in 
frank,  free  intercourse  with  men  and  with  one  another. 
They  had  their  place,  not  only  in  social  life,  but  in  the 
pursuit  of  philosophy  and  literature.  They  could  express 
their  opinions;  they  could  also  express  their  feelings 
without  any  fear  or  shame.  The  position  of  a  woman  like 
Sappho,  with  her  friends  and  associates,  or  pupils,  was 
only  possible  under  the  conditions  of  a  social  life  in  which 
men  and  women  met  as  equals. 

At  that  period  there  existed  in  Mytilene  and  the  Isle  of 
Lesbos  literary  societies  under  the  guidance  of  one  or  two 
distinguished  names  in  poetic  literature,  and  these  literary 
societies  opened  their  ranks  equally  to  men  and  women, 
while  in  some  cases  they  consisted  only  of  women.  Thus, 
for  instance,  Sappho  was  the  centre  of  a  female  literary 
society,  most  of  the  members  of  which  were  her  pupils— 
her  pupils,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  technical  apparatus  of 
poetic  art.  We  know  the  names  of  some  of  these  associates 
or  pupils  of  Sappho — Anactoria,  for  instance,  Gongyla, 
Eunica,  Gyrinna,  Atthis,  Mnasidica,  Damophila,  and 
perhaps  Erinna  of  Telos.  The  last  two  obtained  a  celebrity 
of  their  own  for  their  poetic  gifts.  The  Greeks,  who  were 
a  severely  logical  race,  never  made  any  confusion  between 
the  instruments  with  which  genius  works  and  genius  or 


SAPPHO   AND   ASPASIA  91 

inspiration  itself.  They  knew,  none  better,  that  in  a  very 
true  and  real  sense  you  cannot  teach  people  to  be  poets. 
But  you  can  teach  them  the  technical  laws  which  govern 
poetic  composition.  In  Sappho's  school  the  aim  was, 
doubtless,  to  teach  technique.  Two  of  her  pupils  blos- 
somed forth  into  original  creative  artists  or  geniuses  of 
their  own,  helped,  no  doubt,  by  the  fact  that  their  teacher 
had  driven  them  through  the  mill.  To  take  a  parallel 
case  in  modern  times,  it  is  said  that  acting  cannot  be 
taught.  It  does  not,  however,  follow  that  you  cannot 
teach  the  rudiments  or  the  technique  of  that  art,  even 
though  the  final  inspiration  be  beyond  you.  And  so,  in 
Lesbos,  where  they  cultivated  poetry  with  all  their  might, 
where  it  was  obviously  the  fashion  to  write  poetry,  where 
poetry  was  the  recognised  mode  of  culture,  schools  existed 
to  teach  and  to  encourage  it;  and  besides  Sappho's  school, 
in  all  probability  there  were  several  others.  Gorgo  and 
Andromeda  are  mentioned  in  Sappho's  poems  as  her  rivals. 
Very  probably  they  were  the  heads  of  other  associations 
of  the  same  kind. 

In  considering  Sappho,  we  have  to  imagine  a  state  of 
society  in  which  it  was  not  considered  improper  or  indelicate 
to  write  frankly  and  openly  about  emotions,  and  feelings, 
and  even  passionate  states.  Sappho's  poems  contain 
some  instances  of  this  frank  speaking,  and  they  have  been 
misinterpreted,  because  we  read  into  the  words  some  of 
the  associations  which  belong  only  to  a  much  later  stage 
of  civilisation  and  life.  The  whole  question  of  the  treat- 
ment of  love  by  the  ancient  Greeks  forms  at  once  a  difficult 
and  interesting  chapter  for  inquiry.  It  is  only  necessary 
here  to  make  one  or  two  distinctions.  Compare,  for 
instance,  Sappho,  with  her  frank  simplicity,  and  a  later 
poet — only  a  little  later — Anacreon,  with  his  voluptuous 
sweetness.  There  is  a  world  of  difference  in  the  treatment. 
There  is  a  world  of  difference  in  the  tone.  It  is  not  exactly 
an  apt  parallel,  but  it  may  perhaps  serve,  to  think  of  the 
difference  between  Henry  Fielding's  outspoken  language 
in  Tom  Jones  and  the  style  and  temper  of  Laurence  Sterne, 
say,  in  his  Sentimental  Journey.  Again,  the  early  Greeks 
had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with,  and  therefore  could 
not  understand,  what  we  call  the  sentimental  relations 
between  the  sexes.  ^Esthetic  sentiment  in  this  matter 
is  a  plant  of  later  growth.  For  instance,  it  was  made 
one  of  the  objections  to  the  new  kind  of  drama  initiated 


92    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

by  Euripides  that  he  had  introduced  sentiment  into  the 
relations  between  the  two  sexes;  or,  more  precisely,  that 
in  his  psychological  analysis  of  woman  he  had  opened 
the  door  to  sentimental  romance.  A  love  story,  as  such, 
was  never  a  dramatic  theme  for  the  early  writers  of  drama, 
that  is  to  say,  for  JSschylus  and  Sophocles.  The  whole 
of  the  culture  connected  with  Alexandria  after  the  downfall 
of  the  Hellenic  State  system  made  a  great  change  in  this 
respect.  It  was  at  Alexandria  that  novels  were  first 
invented.  And  so  it  became  possible  for  an  austere 
classical  poet,  like  Virgil,  to  introduce  into  his  epical  poem, 
the  jffineid,  a  sentimental  love  episode,  quite  on  the  modern 
lines,  between  ^Eneas,  the  Trojan  chieftain,  and  Dido,  the 
Queen  of  Carthage.  Points  like  these  must  be  borne  in 
mind  in  dealing  with  the  love  poems  of  Sappho.  Sappho 
spoke  sometimes  with  unconventional  directness,  but  to 
argue  from  unconventional  language  to  disorderliness  of 
behaviour  is  to  go  a  great  deal  beyond  what  the  record 
warrants. 

We  look  back  on  Sappho  through  the  distorted  spec- 
tacles of  the  Attic  comic  dramatists,  and  nothing  pleased 
them  better,  and  apparently  nothing  pleased  better  the 
Athenian  audiences  than  that  they  should  poke  their  some- 
what distasteful  fun  at  people  whom  they  did  not  under- 
stand, and  who  had  lived  their  lives  under  conditions  very 
different  from  their  own.  As  if  it  were  not  enough  that 
the  Attic  comic  dramatists  should  have  had  a  good  deal  to 
say  on  the  subject  of  Sappho,  we  have  the  Latin  licentious 
poet  Ovid  concocting  imaginary  epistles  to  Phaon. 

There  is  one  instance  decisive  in  reference  to  all  this 
belittlement  of  greatness.  We  know  what  Socrates  was 
to  those  who  loved  and  understood  him.  We  know  how 
both  Plato  and  Xenophon  drew  the  lineaments  of  a  great 
moral  reformer.  Yet  how  does  he  appear,  even  in  so  com- 
paratively excellent  a  satirist  as  Aristophanes  ?  An 
absurd  figure  of  farce,  a  corrupter  of  youth,  a  moral  anar- 
chist— such  is  the  picture  drawn  by  the  great  comic 
dramatist  of  Athens.  And  if  the  comic  dramatist  could 
deal  so  hardly  with  a  philosopher  who  takes  so  high  a 
place  in  the  history  of  the  evolution  of  ethics,  why  should 
we  trust  him  any  more  when  he  deals  with  a  figure  like 
that  of  Sappho,  especially  since  ^Eolian  society  was  one 
thing,  and  the  Attic  society  something  wholly  different 
in  its  treatment  of  the  woman  question? 


SAPPHO  AND  ASPASIA  93 

what  would  happen  if  our  dramatists  in  a  modern  age 
were  allowed  the  same  licence  as  was  permitted  in  Athenian 
times  !  Would  the  picture  of  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  as  drawn 
by  a  comic  dramatist,  represent  in  any  respects  the  truth  ? 
Or  would  some  of  the  leading  ladies  in  the  feminist  move- 
ment appear  as  very  creditable  figures  on  our  stage,  if  a 
dramatist  were  allowed  to  make  all  the  fun  he  could  of 
their  pretensions  and  ambitions  ?  Why  should  we  trust 
the  earlier  dramatists  any  more  than  we  would  later  repre- 
sentatives of  the  craft?  But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  the 
early  Christian  writers  accepted  and  popularised  a  mis- 
representation which  the  Greeks  themselves  had  invented. 
Naturally,  it  suited  the  Christian  writer,  in  his  tirades 
against  heathenism,  to  follow  Greek  perversions,  and  paint 
a  Sappho  full  of  corruption,  as  a  terrible  example  of  the 
depths  to  which  heathenism  could  descend.  We  must 
put  aside  all  these  aspersions  and  innuendoes,  and  take 
the  poems  themselves,  if  we  want  to  understand  Sappho. 

We  need  not  stay  long  over  the  actual  details  of  her 
life.  Indeed,  it  is  all  very  obscure  and  uncertain,  just 
for  the  reason  already  indicated — because  later  times 
invented  so  recklessly  stories  about  the  poetess.  She  was 
said,  for  instance,  to  be  married  to  a  man  who  was  called 
Kerkolas ;  but  the  name  sounds  as  if  it  was  an  intentional 
piece  of  comic  chaff.  She  described  herself  on  one  occasion 
as  "  the  eternal  virgin  "  ;  but  the  phrase  might  have  some 
spiritual  sense,  and  need  not  be  considered  to  exclude  the 
theory  that  she  had  a  daughter,  Kleis — the  name  of  her 
mother,  according  to  some,  which  she  then  bestowed  upon 
her  own  child.  The  date  of  her  birth  may  be  placed  at 
about  620  B.C.,  and  the  place,  probably  Mytilene,  the 
capital  of  Lesbos.  Her  father's  name  is  said  to  have  been 
Scamandronymus,  and,  according  to  Ovid,  she  was  left 
an  orphan  at  the  age  of  six.  Other  details,  more  or  less 
interesting,  and,  alas  !  equally  uncertain,  are  concerned 
with  her  brothers.  One  held  the  position  of  cup-bearer, 
a  post  only  conferred  on  youths  belonging  to  the  aristo- 
cracy of  the  Island.  Another  brother,  Charaxus,  is  men- 
tioned by  Herodotus.  He  was  a  trader  in  Lesbian  wines, 
and,  having  arrived  at  Naucratis  in  Egypt,  in  pursuit  of 
his  mercantile  occupations,  he  became  so  enamoured  of  a 
courtesan  called  Rhodopis,  that  he  ransomed  her  from 
slavery.  According  to  some  accounts,  he  actually  married 
her;  but  the  story  goes  on  to  say  that  on  his  return  to 


94    OLD   SAWS  AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

Mytilene  he  was  violently  upbraided  by  Sappho,  and  the 
quarrel  between  brother  and  sister  was  not  easily  healed. 
Of  the  other  brother  of  Sappho  nothing  is  known.  For 
some  reason  or  other,  which  we  shall  never  ascertain, 
Sappho  had  to  leave  Lesbos,  and  journey  to  Sicily.  Her 
reputed  death,  which  is  one  of  the  most  uncertain  things 
about  her,  from  the  Leucadian  Rock,  connects  her  with 
Acarnania;  so,  she  would  certainly  appear  to  be  a  much- 
travelled  lady.  But  in  reality  all  the  personal  anecdotes 
are  to  be  regarded  with  great  suspicion.  Of  course,  she 
was  supposed  to  have  had  many  lovers.  When  we  dis- 
cover that  amongst  them  are  Archilochus,  who  lived  quite 
a  century  before  her,  and  Hipponax  and  Anacreon,  who 
were  unborn  when  she  died,  there  is  sufficient  reason  for 
a  good  deal  of  scepticism.  The  personality  of  Phaon, 
supposed  to  be  a  lover  of  Sappho,  comes  to  us  from  Ovid. 
But  there  is  no  mention  of  such  a  name  in  the  fragments 
of  Sappho' s  poetry,  and  probably  the  name  is  an  invented 
one,  being  similar  to  Phaethon,  another  name  for  Adonis, 
the  lover  of  Aphrodite.  Alcseus,  who  was  also  a  citizen 
of  Mytilene,  and,  together  with  Sappho,  a  great  master 
of  lyric  poetry,  must  have  spoken  to  the  poetess  in  terms 
of  love,  for  we  have  a  fragment  rebuking  him  :  "  Violet 
crowned,  pure,  sweetly-smiling  Sappho,"  says  Alcseus,  "  I 
fain  would  speak  with  thee  a  word  in  thine  ear,  but  shame 
restrains  my  tongue."  And,  according  to  Aristotle  in  his 
Rhetoric,  Sappho  answered,  "  If  thy  wishes  were  fair  and 
noble,  and  thy  tongue  designed  not  what  is  base,  shame 
would  not  cloud  thine  eyes,  but  thou  wouldst  freely  speak 
thy  just  desires."  The  name  Sappho  probably  means 
lapis  lazuli,  just  as  the  name  Electra  means  amber.  Per- 
haps she  gave  it  to  herself,  or  else  it  was  a  pet  name,  just 
as  one  of  the  companions  of  Sappho  was  called  Gongyla, 
which  means  "  the  round  thing,"  or  "  a  dumpling." 

There  are  many  extraordinary  things  about  Sappho. 
Unfortunately  the  fragments  of  her  poetry  are  very  few, 
and  yet,  on  the  strength  of  them,  both  ancient  and  modern 
times  have  been  equally  prepared  to  hail  her  as  an  incom- 
parable poet.  In  Greek  times  she  was,  of  course,  "  the 
poetess,"  just  as  Homer  was  "  the  poet " — the  one  unap- 
proachable speaker  of  inspired  things,  the  Tenth  Muse, 
as  Plato  called  her.  And  when  we  look  closer  at  this 
marvel,  we  shall  find  still  further  reasons  for  astonishment. 
Lyrical  poetry  by  its  very  nature  lends  itself  to  a  certain 


SAPPHO  AND  ASPASIA  95 

extravagance.  When  we  look  at  it  in  later  times  in  the 
dithyrambs  of  Pindar,  we  are  conscious  now  and  again  of 
a  certain  pompous  artificiality.  But  the  lyrics  of  Sappho 
are  absolutely  un artificial.  They  have  no  purple  patches, 
although  they  make  everybody  else's  purple  look  grey  and 
ashen-coloured.  When  critics  try  to  describe  the  impres- 
sion which  single  lines  of  Sappho,  or  complete  poems, 
make  upon  them,  they  use  metaphors  derived  from  fire. 
"  Her  phrases  are  mingled  with  fire,"  an  ancient  critic 
says.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  fiery  is  the  last  word  which  can 
be  applied  to  Sappho's  poems  if  we  look  at  their  phrasing 
and  their  tone.  They  have  a  singular  restraint  of  their 
own.  They  never  run  to  hyperbole  or  excessive  ornament. 
They  are  the  essence  of  refined  and  cultured  simplicity — 
that  kind  of  simplicity  so  difficult  of  attainment,  that 
faultless  simplicity  which  is  the  last  word  in  Art.  Despite 
the  simplicity  of  the  phrasing,  they  are  so  full  of  a  subdued 
yet  intense  brilliance  that,  put  by  the  side  of  them,  other 
lines  seem  to  lose  their  colour.  And,  like  all  the  true  and 
genuine  phrases  of  genius,  they  stick  in  the  memory.  You 
cannot  forget  them.  A  grave,  clear  beauty  seems  to  reign 
over  them,  and  that  is  why  the  only  real  way  of  judging 
Sappho  is  by  reading  her  poetry,  and  then  judging  whether 
she  could  possibly  have  been  the  dissolute  libertine  that 
the  Attic  comic  dramatists  represented.  Of  course,  the 
fact  is  that  a  later  age,  with  other  traditions  and  modes 
of  thought,  and  especially  with  other  views  of  the  position 
of  women,  was  hopelessly  incapacitated  from  understand- 
ing a  personality  like  that  of  Sappho.  She  wrote  about 
love,  and  as  it  so  happens,  the  longest  fragments  we 
possess  are  about  love.  But  she  wrote  on  many  subjects 
also,  and  whatever  the  subject,  her  lines  possess  the  same 
translucent  quality.  "  Now  I  will  sing  to  my  fellow- women 
delightful  songs,"  she  says.  "  The  Muses  made  me  of 
high  price,  giving  me  their  own  crafts."  And  they 
assuredly  did  not  narrow  their  gifts  to  only  love.  She 
speaks  of  "  My  joy  in  the  light  of  the  sun,  holding  within 
it  all  things  radiant  and  fair,"  and  it  is  quite  clear  that 
many  of  her  poems  deal  with  the  loveliness  of  Nature. 
There  is  her  picture  of  the  orchard  in  summer,  "  where 
on  both  sides  cool  water  tinkles  through  apple-boughs, 
and  slumber  floats  down  from  rustling  leaves."  And 
perhaps  the  best-known  passage  of  all  is  the  one  which 
describes  "  the  apple  that  reddens  on  a  top  branch,  atop 


96    OLD   SAWS   AND   MODERN   INSTANCES 

of  the  topmost,  and  the  apple-gatherers  forgot  it — no, 
did  not  forget  it,  but  could  not  reach  it."  Or,  in  simpler, 
more  human  guise,  you  catch  the  note  of  delicate  self- 
appreciation  or  self-abasement.  "  Surely,"  she  sings,  "  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  bear  malice  in  their  temper.  My 
heart  is  innocent."  Or  there  is  a  wail  against  ingratitude  : 
"  Those  harm  me  most  to  whom  I  have  done  best."  Or, 
again,  a  little  sharp  burst  of  woman's  jealousy,  "  What 
country  girl  is  this  that  bewitches  your  sense  ?  One  that 
does  not  even  know  how  to  draw  her  skirts  about  her 
ankles."  Or  the  grave  reflection,  "  Mourning  befits  not 
the  house  of  the  Muses,"  or  the  judgment,  reported  by  a 
later  age,  "  Death  is  evil,  for  the  Gods  have  so  judged, 
else  they  themselves  would  have  died." 

The  beautiful  invocation  to  evening— ;t  Hesper,  thou 
bringest  back  all  those  things  which  the  gleaming  dawn 
hath  scattered" — has  been  imitated  by  several  modern 
poets,  by  Byron,  perhaps,  worst  of  all.  Or  the  exquisite 
phrasing  of  the  poem,  "  He  is  most  blest  of  mankind  who, 
sitting  opposite  thee,  sees  thee  with  thy  sweet  smile,  and 
hears  thy  sweet  voice."  Or  that  divine  line  on  which 
Swinburne  plays  so  many  variations,  "  Yea,  verily  I  loved 
thee  once,  Atthis,  once  long  time  ago."  The  subdued 
passion  is  just  as  remarkable  as  the  exquisite  literary 
form,  and  that  is  precisely  what  so  many  poets  that  came 
after  her  have  recognised  and  sought  to  reproduce.  But 
it  is  a  question  whether  any  of  them  really  succeeded. 
Catullus,  perhaps,  came  nearest ;  and,  as  we  know,  Catullus 
did  his  best  to  imitate  Sappho.  Horace,  of  course,  followed 
Alcaeus,  though  he  reproduced  the  Sapphic  metre.  Ovid 
has  some  wonderful  lines  in  his  Epistle  of  Sappho  to  Phaon, 
lines  which  redeem  the  poem  from  its  other  aspects  of 
ugliness.  There  are,  perhaps,  only  two  modern  English 
poets  who  come  anywhere  near  Sappho,  or  perhaps  three, 
despite  the  number  of  those  who  have  tried  to  imitate  her. 
Byron  is  bombastic  if  we  put  him  beside  the  ^Eolian  singer, 
but  Shelley  has  the  true  lyrical  note,  and  Keats  some  of 
that  chiselled  loveliness  which  makes  each  Sapphic  stanza 
a  masterpiece.  And  then,  last  of  all,  and  in  some  ways 
best  of  all,  we  come,  not  to  Rossetti,  but  to  Swinburne- 
Swinburne,  who  has  said  things  about  Sappho  memorable 
in  their  ungrudging  enthusiasm,  but  who  himself  con- 
fesses that  the  real  Sapphic  beauty  is  beyond  him.  Listen 
to  Swinburne's  "  Anactoria  "  : — 


SAPPHO  AND   ASPASIA  97 

"  Yea,  thou  shalt  be  forgotten  like  spilt  wine, 
Except  these  kisses  of  my  lips  on  thine 
Brand  them  with  immortality ;  but  me — 
Men  shall  not  see  bright  fire  nor  hear  the  sea, 
Nor  mix  their  hearts  with  music,  nor  behold 
Cast  forth  of  heaven  with  feet  of  awful  gold, 
And  plumeless  wings  that  make  the  bright  air  blind 
Lighning,  with  thunder  for  a  hound  behind, 
Hunting  through  fields  unfurrowed  and  unsown — 
But  in  the  light  and  laughter,  in  the  moan 
And  music,  and  in  grasp  of  lip  and  hand, 
And  shudder  of  water  that  makes  felt  on  land 
The  immeasurable  tremor  of  all  the  sea, 
Memories  shall  mix  and  metaphors  of  me." 

And  this,  too,  may  be  quoted,  where  Swinburne  amplifies 
the  one  line  of  Sappho  already  given  :— 

"  I  loved  thee — hark,  one  tenderer  note  than  all — 
Atthis,  of  old  time  once — one  low  long  fall 
Sighing — one  long  low  lovely  loveless  call 
Dying — one  pause  in  song  so  flamelike  fast — 
Atthis,  long  since  in  old  time  overpast — 
One  soft  first  pause  and  last." 

The  Gods  are  jealous  in  their  gifts  to  mankind,  and  they 
give  only  a  few  examples  of  the  utterly  best.  There  has 
never  been  another  Homer;  nor  yet  has  there  ever  been 
another  Sappho — save  where  certain  fragments  of  her 
power  and  chaste  grace  survive  here  and  there  in  the 
beautiful  poems  of  Christina  Rossetti. 

There  is  a  legend  connected  with  Sappho  about  which 
a  word  or  two  may  be  said,  the  celebrated  leap  from  the 
Leucadian  Rock,  by  means  of  which,  according  to  some, 
she  ended  her  stormy  career.  An  early  death,  however, 
is  contradicted  by  one  of  the  fragments  of  her  poetry,  in 
which  she  describes  herself  as  growing  old  (yepaiTSQa). 
The  story,  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  is  something  of  this 
kind.  There  was  a  certain  boatman  of  Mytilene,  called 
Phaon,  who  in  his  old  age  had  the  good  luck  to  row 
Aphrodite  in  his  boat.  When  he  refused  payment  for  his 
services,  the  goddess  restored  to  him  both  youth  and 
beauty,  just  as  in  the  kindred  legend  of  Nausicaa  the 
goddess  restored  to  Odysseus  the  beauty  of  his  prime. 
Aphrodite  gave  Phaon  a  magic  ointment,  so  that  every 
woman  who  set  eyes  upon  him  became  enamoured  of  his 
charms.  And  one  of  the  earliest  victims  was  Sappho. 
Phaon,  tired  of  the  gift  of  eternal  youth,  and  of  all  the 


98      OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

wooing  of  Lesbian  ladies,  withdrew  to  Acarnania,  and 
founded  the  Temple  of  Apollo  Leucas  on  a  promontory 
facing  the  sea.  Even  in  this  retreat  Phaon  was  not  safe, 
for  the  infatuated  ladies  pursued  him,  and  when  he  repulsed 
them  each  in  turn,  they  threw  themselves  off  the  cliff  on 
which  the  temple  was  situated,  into  the  sea.  Sappho 
was  one  of  the  earliest  of  these  who  thus  died  for  the  sake 
of  her  lover,  Phaon. 

Now  there  are  many  things  to  be  said  about  this  myth. 
In  the  first  place,  Phaon  is  only  a  name  for  the  "  Shining 
One,"  and  perhaps  has  something  to  do  with  Adonis,  the 
beloved  of  Aphrodite.     In  the  next  place,  this  leap  from 
the  Leucadian  Rock  is  a  very  doubtful  matter,  for,  accord- 
ing to  some,  it  was  purely  symbolic,  part  of  a  rite  in  honour 
of  Apollo,  in  which,  in  substitute  for  a  human  being,  a 
sack   of  gold,   perhaps,   was   thrown   into   the   sea.     The 
priests  of  the  Temple  undoubtedly  earned  a  great  deal 
of  money  by  the  visits  of  pilgrims,   who,   for  whatever 
reasons,  desired  intercession  with  the  god.     Perhaps  origin- 
ally men  and  women  did  take  this  leap  in  real  earnest; 
but  the  priests  took  particular  pains  to  have  boats  to 
pick  up  the  martyrs  and  restore  them  safe  to  land.     The 
leap  may  have  been  a  supposed  remedy  against  love,  or  it 
might  have  had  other  meanings.     But,  as  often  happens 
in  the  history  of  ceremonial  rites,  what  was  originally  a 
deadly  sacrifice  becomes  a  mere  symbol,  either  some  sub- 
stitute being  found  for  the  intending  victim,  or  else  a  sum 
of  gold.     To   say   that   Sappho   threw   herself  from   the 
Leucadian  Rock  might  be  only  another  way  of    saying 
that  she  was  the  victim  of  love.     Or  if  she  actually  essayed 
the  leap,  instead  of  allowing  some  one  to  do  it  for  her, 
she  was   probably  saved  from  the   consequences   of  her 
rashness,   and   continued   her   career  as   a   poetess.     The 
whole  question  is  mixed  up  with  the  age  of  Sappho,  which 
is  itself  a  very  doubtful  point.     Born  in  620,  she  may 
have  lived  on  to  nearly  570  or  560  B.C.,  and  if  so,  she  must 
have  been  at  least  fifty  years  of  age — a  somewhat  mature 
woman  to  have  taken  to  such  desperate  courses  in  conse- 
quence  of  a  love  affair.      At  all    events,   there   were   a 
number   of    other   people   who    were    supposed   to   have 
imitated  her  in  the  supposed  act  of  self-immolation,  and 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  was  Artemisia,  the  daughter 
of  the  Queen  of  Halicarnassus,   the  lady  whose  gallant 
conduct  at  the  battle  of  Salamis  made  Xerxes  exclaim 
that  the  women  had  behaved  like  men,  and  the  men  like 


SAPPHO  AND   ASPASIA  99 

women.  Amazon  though  she  was,  she  yet  was  not  proof 
against  the  insidious  advances  of  a  love-passion,  and  being 
disdained  by  a  youth  of  Abydos,  she,  too,  hurled  herself 
from  the  promontory,  to  find  the  release  from  her  suffer- 
ings in  death.  Clearly  we  are  in  a  very  mythical  realm 
in  dealing  with  events  like  these.  Doubtless  Sappho 
haunts  the  cliffs  of  Acarnania,  but  she  exists  solely  as  a 
wraith  or  ghost  for  kindred  poets,  for  a  poet,  above  all,  so 
delicately  sensitive  and  so  quickly  receptive  as  Swinburne. 


§2 

When  we  pass  from  the  times  of  Sappho  to  those  of 
Aspasia,  we  pass  from  what  Thucydides  called  "  the  sphere 
of  the  mythical  "  to  something  like  the  clear  light  of  history. 
But  even  here  passion  and  prejudice  have  distorted  the 
facts.  Once  more  we  see  the  evil  work  of  the  Attic  comic 
dramatists,  Eupolis  and  Cratinus,  and  especially  of  Aristo- 
phanes; for  we  have,  what  was  wanting  in  the  earlier 
case,  political  rivalries  to  add  venom  to  merely  social 
scandal.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  great  and 
gifted  woman  who  has  struggled  against  such  a  mass  of 
existing  prejudices  as  Aspasia.  In  the  first  place,  she  was 
an  alien,  and  there  were  strict  laws  in  Athens  against 
aliens,  and  especially  against  marriage  with  aliens.  She 
came  from  Miletus,  the  daughter  of  a  certain  Axiochus. 
In  the  next  place,  she  had  very  high  mental  accomplish- 
ments, and  the  majority  of  people  are  very  intolerant  of 
really  able  and  clever  women.  Then  her  very  existence 
and  her  position  in  an  Athenian  household  contradicted 
the  idea  which  the  Athenians  obstinately  held  of  the 
proper  position  of  women.  Having  come  to  Athens,  and 
gained  the  affection  of  the  great  Athenian  statesman 
Pericles,  she  exercised  her  influence  over  him,  not  more 
by  her  beauty  than  by  her  acute  intelligence.  Now 
Pericles  was  married  to  a  lady  of  rank  whose  name,  oddly 
enough,  history  has  not  preserved,  by  whom  he  had  two 
sons,  Xanthippus  and  Paralus,  and  he  seems  to  have  lived 
very  unhappily  with  his  wife.  He  parted  from  her  in 
consequence,  by  mutual  consent,  and  attached  himself 
to  Aspasia  during  the  rest  of  his  life  as  closely  as  was 
allowed  by  the  law. 

The  scandal  of  her  existence  in  Athens  was  based 
especially  on  the  fact  that,  instead  of  believing  in  the 


100    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

seclusion  of  women,  she  held  reunions,  at  which  both  she 
and  her  friends  moved  with  absolute  freedom,  discussing, 
with  all  the  most  learned  men  of  the  day,  problems  of 
policy,  of  philosophy,  and  metaphysics.  In  that  extremely 
amusing,  but  decidedly  improper,  comedy  of  Aristophanes, 
called  The  Lysistrata,  one  of  the  revolting  ladies  describes 
the  ordinary  conditions  of  an  Athenian  woman.1 

"  What  can  we  women  do  ?    What  brilliant  scheme 
Can  we,  poor  souls,  accomplish  ?     We  who  sit 
Trimmed  and  bedizened  in  our  saffron  silks, 
Our  cambric  robes,  and  little  finical  shoes." 

Imagine  how  Aspasia  fluttered  the  dovecotes  of  women 
like  these  !  Thucydides  makes  Pericles  say,  speaking  of 
the  proper  place  of  women  in  a  social  state,  that  that 
woman  leads  the  best  life  whose  name  is  least  commented 
upon  by  the  public,  either  for  praise  or  blame.  That,  no 
doubt,  was  the  Athenian  ideal;  but  it  was  exactly  the 
opposite  of  the  ideal  which  Pericles  aimed  at  in  his  own 
house.  No  one  was  more  talked  about  than  Aspasia,  and 
if  she  was  praised  by  able  men,  like  Anaxagoras  and 
Pheidias  and  Socrates,  because  they  found  that  they  could 
talk  to  her  just  as  if  she  had  been  a  man,  she  was  right 
royally  abused,  not  only  by  the  conventional  Athenian 
matrons,  but  by  men  like  Aristophanes,  who  attributed 
to  her  an  evil  influence  in  upsetting  a  good  old  social 
regime,  and  involving  their  native  country  in  war. 

There  was  a  further  reason  why  so  much  calumny 
attached  to  Aspasia' s  name.  Grave  political  dissensions 
entered  into  the  matter,  and  the  enemies  of  Pericles  on 
political  grounds  struck  at  their  prominent  statesman 
through  Aspasia.  Pericles  was  the  head  of  the  Liberal 
party.  Together  with  Ephialtes,  he  was  the  man,  above 
all,  who  developed  the  democracy  of  Athens,  bringing 
about  that  rule  of  the  Athenian  people  for  and  by  them- 
selves, which  made  the  Attic  Demos  so  astonishing  a 
phenomenon  of  culture  and  power.  But  the  Conser- 
vative party,  the  aristocratic  party,  were  throughout 
deadly  enemies.  Cimon  had  led  this  party,  and  he  had 
been  exiled.  To  the  everlasting  honour  of  Pericles,  his 
political  adversary,  Cimon,  who  was  a  real  patriot,  was 
restored  to  his  country  by  a  decree  passed  by  Pericles 
himself,  and  a  sort  of  division  of  responsibility  took  place 

1  Taken  from  the  translation  of  Benjamin  Rogers. 


SAPPHO   AND  ASPASIA  101 

between  them,  Pericles  remaining  the  great  executive 
Minister  of  the  Republic,  and  Cimon  its  chief  general,  or 
rather  admiral,  at  the  head  of  the  Athenian  fleets.  Cimon 
died  in  the  wars,  and  then  the  aristocratic  party — for,  of 
course,  concord  did  not  reign  for  long — put  up  against 
Pericles  a  certain  Thucydides,  son  of  Milesias  (not  the 
historian),  who  fought  with  all  his  might  on  reactionary 
lines,  until  the  day  when  it  was  his  turn,  too,  to  meet  the 
doom  of  exile,  Pericles,  by  the  aid  of  a  popular  vote,  con- 
solidating his  exclusive  dominion.  "  It  was  in  name  a 
Republic,"  says  the  Greek  historian.  "  In  reality  it  was 
a  sort  of  benevolent  despotism,  worked  by  one  man  and 
one  man  alone — Pericles."  But  since  we  have  to  add  to 
the  vindictiveness  of  an  outraged  social  opinion  the  bitter- 
ness also  of  party  conflicts  between  the  advocates  of 
progress  and  reaction,  it  is  hardly  surprising  that  the 
domestic  menage  of  Pericles  should  be  the  target  for 
unscrupulous  attacks. 

This  does  not  exhaust  all  the  various  elements  in  the 
great  conspiracy  against  Pericles  and  the  democracy  of 
Athens.  Social  prejudice  counted  for  something;  the 
rivalry  of  parties  counted  for  a  great  deal.  Some  disliked 
Aspasia  because  she  was  an  enlightened  woman.  Many 
disliked  Pericles  because  he  was  a  democrat.  But  above 
and  beyond  these  more  or  less  domestic  considerations, 
there  was  one  power  in  Greece  which  had  watched  with 
ill-disguised  malevolence  the  steady  rise  and  development 
of  the  Athenian  Empire.  Sparta  and  the  Peloponnese 
represented  a  Dorian  aristocracy.  The  lonians,  such  as 
were  found  on  both  sides  of  the  ^Egean,  were  not  con- 
genial to  the  lords  of  Lacedaemon.  And  when  it  was 
observed  that  Athens,  the  great  Ionian  city,  had  acquired 
a  great  fleet,  had  established  a  maritime  supremacy,  had 
enrolled  a  great  many  of  the  islanders  into  a  Confederation, 
of  which  Athens  was  the  head,  although  the  meeting-place 
was  at  Delos,  Spartan  jealousy  could  be  no  longer  restrained 
in  view  of  the  success  of  its  hated  rival.  Unfortunately, 
it  was  easy  enough  for  the  Spartans  to  act,  for  the  aristo- 
cratic and  reactionary  party  in  Athens  naturally  sided 
with  Sparta.  They  believed  in  their  form  of  government, 
which  was  a  curious  combination  of  monarchy  and  olig- 
archy, as  against  the  free,  democratic  institutions  of  Athens. 
And  despite  the  glory  of  sculpture  and  painting,  and  the 
magnificent  buildings  which  made  the  City  of  the  Violet 


102    QLP  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Crown  the  most  lovely  thing  in  Greece,  these  old-fashioned 
inhabitants  of  Attica  espoused  the  cause  of  Sparta  rather 
than  of  Pericles.  Pericles,  who  was  a  statesman,  foresaw 
some  time  previously  whither  matters  were  likely  to  extend. 
He  knew  that  sooner  or  later  what  was  afterwards  known 
as  the  great  Peloponnesian  War,  the  war  between  Athens 
and  Sparta,  was  inevitable.  But  meanwhile,  while  every 
month  brought  the  conflict  nearer,  he  had  to  sustain  the 
brunt  of  attacks  upon  himself,  his  policy,  and  his  house, 
directed,  not  by  internal  enemies — though,  doubtless,  to 
some  extent  engineered  and  aided  by  them — but  by 
external  foes.  There  is  hardly  any  question  that  the 
Spartans  had  their  share  in  the  various  petty  or  great 
persecutions  to  which  the  Athenian  statesman  was  exposed. 
It  was  only  when  each  in  turn  came  to  nothing,  and 
Pericles  still  remained  the  great  head,  the  chief  magistrate, 
the  uncrowned  King  of  Athens,  that  open  war  took  the 
place  of  secret  and  insidious  schemes. 

Pericles  had  surrounded  himself — and  when  we  say 
Pericles  we  mean  also  Aspasia — with  all  the  most  brilliant 
men  of  the  day.  Pheidias,  the  great  sculptor,  was  one  of 
the  most  prominent  of  these.  Then  there  was  Anaxagoras, 
the  great  philosopher.  The  leading  tragedians  of  Greece 
naturally  belonged  to  the  same  distinguished  circle,  which 
was  further  adorned  by  the  striking  personality  of  Socrates, 
who,  when  comparatively  young,  fell,  like  every  other 
male,  under  the  charm  of  Aspasia.  The  first  blow  which 
the  enemies  of  Pericles  directed  against  him  was  aimed 
at  Pheidias.  The  ostensible  charge  against  him  was  that 
he  had  used  for  his  own  personal  profit  a  large  amount  of 
the  gold  and  other  materials  with  which  the  State  had 
entrusted  him,  for  his  great  statue  of  Athene.  There  were 
also  other  accusations  against  him,  probably  based  upon 
a  large  amount  of  current  gossip.  For  it  was  said  that  he 
had  been  guilty  of  a  sacrilegious  act  in  representing  himself, 
and  also  carving  a  portrait  of  Pericles,  in  those  combats 
of  Amazons  which  ornamented  the  goddess's  shield.  The 
result  was  tragic  enough,  as  far  as  Pheidias  was  concerned. 
He  was  thrown  into  prison,  and  died  there,  either  from 
sickness  or  from  despair,  or,  as  some  said,  because  he  was 
poisoned.  No  doubt  it  was  also  urged  by  the  unscrupulous 
that  Pericles  was  not  disinclined  to  get  rid,  in  any  fashion 
that  was  possible,  of  the  man  who  was  his  accomplice  in 
thieving  the  funds  of  the  State. 


SAPPHO   AND  ASPASIA  103 

Encouraged  by  their  success,  the  enemies  of  Pericles 
next    proceeded    against    Anaxagoras.     And    here    they 
involved  Aspasia  also,  for  it  was   familiar  knowledge  at 
Athens  that  Aspasia  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  Anaxagoras 
in  natural  philosophy,   and  had  imbibed  the  dangerous 
doctrines  with  which  the  philosopher's  name  was  associated. 
The  charge  of  impiety  is  one  of  the  most  subtle  and  perilous 
weapons  which  any  party  can  use  in  their  intestine  squab- 
bles.    It  may  mean  so  little,  and  it  may  mean  so  much; 
and  always  at  the  background  of  the  charge  is  that  mass  of 
good,  honest  belief,  as  well  as  obstinate  prejudice,  which 
constitutes  the  ordinary  instinctive  unreasoning  faith  of 
the  people  at  large.     What  precisely  Anaxagoras  had  done 
did  not  matter  so  much  as  what  he  was  supposed  to  have 
done.     The   philosophical   scheme   of  Anaxagoras   was   a 
development   of  some   of  the   doctrines   of  the  so-called 
Ionic  school,  which  tried  to  find  an  essential  principle  in 
the  universe  to  explain  its  constitution  and  its  growth. 
The  earliest  thinkers  asked  what  was  the  original  thing 
out  of  which  the  world  developed  ?     Was  it  earth  ?     Was 
it  water  ?     Was  it  fire  ?     And  to  them  succeeded  a  school 
which  turned  not  so  much  to  material  elements  as  to 
mental  in  the  explanation  of  the  universe.     Anaxagoras 
declared  outright  that  all  these  material  bodies  of  which 
the  universe  was  composed  were  to  be  explained  as  the 
work  of  a  central  spirit  or  intelligence,  Nous,  in  virtue  of 
which  the  earth  and  stars  pursued  their  appointed  way. 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  a  charge  of  impiety  could  be  trumped 
up  against  a  man  who  taught  so  refined  and  also  so  esoteric 
a  doctrine.     What  is  this  central  Intelligence  or  Nous, 
and  where  does  Zeus,  the  father  of  gods  and  men,  come 
in  on  this  showing?     And  what,  too,  became  of  all  the 
favourite   figures   of  the   Greek   Pantheon — Athene,   and 
Apollo,  and  Ares,  and  Poseidon  ?     At  any  rate,  it  was  not 
difficult  to  make  out  a  definite  accusation  against  Anaxa- 
goras that  he  had  denied  the  gods  of  his  country,  and  that, 
therefore,  he  was  worthy  of  death ;    while  those,  too,  who 
had  listened  to  him  and  accepted  his  subversive  doctrines, 
like  Aspasia,  must  also  be  held  accountable  to  the  law. 

The  strange  part  of  the  matter  is  that,  whereas  the  law 
against  impiety  was,  as  a  rule,  directed  against  overt  acts, 
it  was,  in  the  present  instance,  owing  to  the  proposal  of 
a  man  called  Diopithes,  directed  against  opinions.  Who 
was  especially  the  accuser  of  Anaxagoras  is  not  quite  clear. 


104    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

It  may  have  been  Cleon,  or  Thucydides  the  son  of  Milesias. 
But  the  accuser  of  Aspasia  was  undoubtedly  Hermippus, 
a  comic  poet.  The  two  accused  persons  adopted  very 
different  measures  of  self-defence.  Perhaps  owing  to  the 
advice  of  Pericles,  Anaxagoras  quitted  Athens  secretly, 
and  took  refuge  abroad;  and,  according  to  Plutarch, 
Pericles  accompanied  him  and  bade  farewell  of  him  at 
the  boundary  of  the  city.  Without  doubt  the  loss  of  so 
close  a  friend  as  Anaxagoras,  coming  after  the  death  of 
Pheidias,  struck  a  heavy  blow  at  the  chief  statesman  of 
Athens,  the  more  so  because  he  had  to  devote  himself  to 
the  defence  of  Aspasia,  menaced  by  the  accusation  of 
Hermippus.  The  speech  which  he  delivered  on  the 
occasion,  in  strange  contrast  with  anything  which  could 
take  place  in  our  courts  of  law,  was  nothing  more  or  less 
than  an  impassioned  appeal  to  the  people  of  Athens  to 
acquit  Aspasia,  partly  on  the  ground  of  his  own  services 
to  the  State,  and  partly  on  the  strength  of  his  confident 
testimony  that  she  was  innocent.  And  then  for  the  first 
time  Athens  saw  the  portentous  and  unexpected  sight  of 
Pericles  in  tears.  The  statesman  who  was  especially 
celebrated  for  his  self-control,  for  his  Olympian  calm  and 
dignity,  broke  down  so  utterly,  lost  so  much  of  his  original 
self-restraint,  that  his  accusers  themselves  seem  to  have 
understood  how  deeply  his  feelings  were  enlisted  in  the 
cause  of  Aspasia.  And  the  judges  acquitted  her*  It  was 
not  the  only  time  that  Pericles  had  to  face  charges  of  this 
kind.  He,  too,  was  accused  of  peculation.  But,  one  after 
another,  all  these  blows  directed  against  him,  either  by 
his  enemies  in  Athens  or  through  the  machinations  of 
Sparta,  met  with  decisive  failure,  and  at  the  period  when 
Athens  commenced  its  memorable  war  against  Sparta 
Pericles'  influence  and  authority  knew  no  bounds. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  how  difficult  Aspasia' s  position 
was  in  Athens;  how  many  different  forms  of  criticism 
she  had  to  meet — if,  indeed,  criticism  be  not  too  gentle 
a  word  to  describe  the  attacks,  open  or  surreptitious,  of 
her  enemies.  There  was  the  social  scandal  of  her  position, 
and  then  there  was  the  fact  that,  like  Sappho,  and,  indeed, 
like  Socrates  himself,  she  served  as  a  natural  target  for 
the  satire  and  scorn  of  professional  wits.  Cratinus,  who 
belonged  to  the  earlier  comedy  of  Athens,  has  some  very 
bitter  words  about  her.  "  Daughter  of  immodesty,"  he 
calls  her,  "  a  courtesan  with  the  eyes  of  a  dog."  But 


SAPPHO   AND   ASPASIA  105 

indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  Aristophanes  is  just  as 
violent  in  his  attacks,  only  instead  of  using  opprobrious 
terms,  he  definitely,  in  his  play  called  The  Acharnians, 
accuses  her  of  having  brought  about  the  Peloponnesian 
War.  In  the  third  place,  there  was  the  political  opposition 
— the  customary  attitude  of  a  reactionary  party  against 
what  seemed  to  belong  to  a  dangerous  Liberal  or  even 
Radical  movement.  And  in  the  last  place,  there  was  the 
constant  intrigue  of  Sparta,  very  obviously  making  use 
of  the  personality  of  Aspasia,  in  order  to  engineer  the 
crusade  against  Pericles.  It  would  be  wonderful,  indeed, 
if  any  woman,  subject  to  these  diverse  forms  of  continuous 
criticism,  managed  to  keep  her  character  clear  from 
calumny  and  insult. 

Thus  it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  disentangle  the  true 
Aspasia  from  the  various  caricatures  which  were  rife  at 
her  time  and  at  later  times.  What  precisely  did  she 
attempt  to  do  in  Athens  ?  She  came  as  an  alien,  was  the 
unrecognised  wife  of  Pericles,  and  the  mother  of  a  son 
who,  until  a  later  date,  was  considered  by  the  law  of 
Athens  illegitimate.  Starting  with  these  disadvantages, 
she  nevertheless  made  the  house  of  Pericles  the  meeting- 
place  for  men  and  women,  as  we  should  say,  of  the  higher 
culture,  who  discussed,  on  terms  of  perfect  equality, 
various  topics — domestic  economy,  politics,  art,  the  prin- 
ciples of  morals,  physics  in  the  largest  sense,  and  probably 
religion.  Aspasia' s  home  was  a  salon,  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  word.  The  great  artists  were  there,  the  great 
dramatists,  the  great  philosophers.  And,  so  far  as  we 
can  tell,  some  of  the  more  emancipated  of  the  matrons  of 
Athens  did  not  hesitate  to  join  this  cultured  circle,  what- 
ever might  be  the  existing  prejudice.  This  is  especially 
the  point  which  Aspasia' s  enemies  caught  hold  of.  They 
declared  that  she  had  induced  several  of  the  free-born 
inhabitants  of  Athens  to  forget  what  they  owed  to  their 
own  position  and  their  own  homes;  and  they  did  not 
hesitate  to  suggest  that  all  sorts  of  unworthy  temptations 
were  held  out  to  the  ladies  who  supported  Aspasia' s  salon. 
Plutarch  gives  us  a  good  many  details  on  this  point.  He 
declares  that  the  Athenian  matrons  went  with  their  hus- 
bands, in  order  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  a  really  enlightened 
causerie,  and  the  orthodox  and  Conservative  elements  in 
Athens  were  shocked,  while  the  grosser  minds  suggested 
the  possibility  of  base  reasons.  All  the  women  throughout 


106    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  whole  course  of  history  who  have  tried  to  emancipate 
themselves  from  existing  prejudice  and  lead  their  own 
lives — who  have  tried  to  collect  round  themselves  a  com- 
pany of  thoughtful  and  educated  men  and  women — have 
invariably  found  that  their  best  intentions  are  misinter- 
preted, and  the  nature  of  their  reunions  grievously  maligned 
by  the  envious,  the  spiteful,  and  the  unclean.  Aspasia 
was  one  of  the  first — but  she  assuredly  was  not  the  last — 
to  be  forced  to  run  through  the  whole  gamut  of  scorn, 
satire,  and  abuse  because  of  her  independence,  her  self- 
reliance,  and  her  freedom  from  ordinary  prejudice. 

If  we  ask  what  were  the  subjects  on  which  she  discoursed, 
and  on  which  she  listened  to  the  words  of  her  friends,  we 
discover  from  Xenophon's  Memorabilia,  and  from  a  frag- 
ment of  a  Socratic  writer,  called  JSschines,  about  Aspasia, 
that  the  constant  object  of  her  solicitude  was  a  study  of 
the  rights  and  duties  which  marriage  creates  for  man  and 
woman.  Clearly  enough,  she  recognised  that  those  who 
entered  into  a  matrimonial  contract  ought  to  do  so  with 
absolute  freedom  on  both  sides.  There  ought,  in  other 
words,  to  be  allowed  to  women  as  much  as  to  men  a  free 
choice.  With  conditions  like  these  marriage  becomes  a 
union  of  two  thoughtful  human  beings,  who  give  each  other 
the  best  of  themselves,  and  therefore  help  in  a  partnership 
of  mutual  confidence  and  respect.  Naturally  enough,  the 
position  of  woman  in  the  married  state  occupied  the  atten- 
tion of  Aspasia,  just  because  she  felt  that  in  Athens  the 
wife  was  not  very  much  better  than  a  chattel  and  a  slave ; 
so  that,  in  thus  occupying  herself  with  the  circumstances 
of  marriage,  she  was  also  one  of  the  earliest  of  those  whom 
we  call  Feminists,  everywhere  upholding  the  cause  of 
woman  as  an  independent  social  integer,  a  definite  portion 
of  the  State  economy.  In  other  words,  she  revived  in  the 
fifth  century  some  of  the  ideas  which,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  had  animated  the  earlier  centuries.  What 
Andromache  had  been  to  Hector,  what  Penelope  had  been 
to  Ulysses,  what  Nausicaa  had  been  as  a  daughter  in  the 
Phaeacian  Isle,  that  Aspasia  claimed  for  herself  and  her 
sisters  in  Athens.  Meanwhile,  her  union  with  Pericles 
was  a  very  high  example,  carried  out  in  practice,  of  those 
theories  which  she  discussed  with  her  friends  in  private. 
And,  despite  all  the  controversies  of  the  time  and  all  the 
oblique  references  to  her  fame  which  we  find  in  contem- 
porary and  later  writers,  let  us  remind  ourselves  that  the 


SAPPHO   AND   ASPASIA  107 

Athenians  themselves  made  ample  amends  to  Pericles  for 
whatever  ignoble  stigma  they  had  thoughtlessly  cast  upon 
the  partner  of  his  married  life.  For  when  the  plague  had 
taken  away  both  the  sons  of  Pericles,  and  the  statesman 
who  had  toiled  so  hard  for  the  supremacy  of  Athens  was 
left  without  a  single  representative  at  home  to  discharge 
sacrificial  duties  to  the  shades  of  his  ancestors — when  the 
family  of  the  Alcmaeonidae  had  no  heir  to  carry  on  its  fame 
— the  Athenians  determined  to  legitimise  the  youthful 
Pericles,  who  was  the  son  of  Aspasia.  Now  it  was  quite 
open  for  Pericles  to  have  adopted  some  boy  in  order  to 
keep  up  the  honour  of  his  name.  The  fact  that  he  did  not 
do  anything  of  the  kind,  combined  with  the  recognition 
on  the  part  of  his  fellow-citizens  implied  in  the  act  of 
legitimation  of  Aspasia' s  child,  surely  proved  that  in  the 
better  judgment  of  Athens  Aspasia' s  life  had  been  so  pure 
and  noble  as  to  redeem  her  from  all  the  base  charges  of 
ignoble  wits. 

Thus  in  the  long  run  truth  prevails,  and  strength  of 
character  will  win  its  legitimate  triumphs.  Aspasia  was 
a  great  woman,  full  of  quick  natural  intelligence,  adorned 
and  fortified  by  a  steady,  organised  system  of  culture. 
Socrates,  in  his  laughing  fashion,  declares  that  she  taught 
him  how  to  speak,  and  going  even  further  than  this,  tries 
to  make  out  that  it  was  Aspasia,  and  not  Pericles,  who 
wrote  the  Funeral  Oration  which  was  delivered  in  Athens 
shortly  after  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  reported  so 
fully  by  Thucydides.  This,  which  we  find  in  the  Platonic 
Dialogue  called  "  Menexenus,"  is  clearly  Socrates'  joke, 
and  we  must  not  for  a  moment  take  it  seriously — any  more 
than  we  can  take  seriously  the  report  that  after  Pericles' 
death  Aspasia  married  a  common  cattle-dealer  called 
Lysicles.  So  prominent  a  figure  naturally  attracted  to 
itself  every  kind  of  floating  gossip,  complimentary  or 
malevolent.  For  ourselves,  one  or  two  things,  amongst 
many  that  could  be  cited,  are  quite  sufficient  to  keep  the 
memory  of  Aspasia  at  the  high  level  which  her  intellect 
and  her  virtue  deserved.  A  pretty  story  tells  us  that 
Pericles,  every  time  he  left  her  for  his  ordinary  avocations, 
and  every  time  he  returned,  kissed  her — a  fact  which  must 
have  been  sufficiently  remarkable  to  be  worth  chronicling, 
and  for  this  reason  obviously  a  very  unusual  indication 
of  affection.  We  have  said  also  that  when  he  was  defend- 
ing her  before  the  Athenian  judges,  Pericles,  despite  his 


108    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Olympian  calm,  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Points  like 
these  only  illustrate  how  extraordinary  was  the  devotion 
which  united  the  first  statesman  of  Greece  with  the  most 
brilliant  woman  of  her  time.  But  when  we  find  that  Athens 
could  give  up  all  its  old  prejudice,  could  turn  its  back  on 
ancestral  customs  and  conventions,  and  recognise  the 
legitimacy  of  Pericles'  union  with  an  alien ;  and  when  we 
have  to  add  to  that  this  second  fact,  that  Plato,  who  did 
not  like  Pericles,  because  he  represented  a  political  ideal 
different  from  his  own,  could  yet  venture  to  make  his 
great  master,  Socrates,  sit  at  the  feet  of  Aspasia,  in  order 
to  learn  of  her  the  arts  of  discussion  and  oratory,  we  can 
hardly  be  wrong  in  the  conclusion  that  the  Milesian  woman, 
the  daughter  of  Axiochus,  Aspasia,  the  well-beloved  of 
Pericles,  stands  in  the  very  front  rank  of  the  great  women 
who  have  adorned  the  pages  of  ancient  and  modern  history. 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    EMPEROR 

MARCUS  AURELIUS  ANTONINUS 

§  1 

THE  perennial  charm  which  surrounds  the  Meditations  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  is  explicable  on  several  grounds.  Perhaps 
in  the  first  place  we  should  put  the  fact  that  the  author 
of  these  thoughts  was  an  Emperor ;  that  is  to  say,  a  man 
who  was  every  day  face  to  face  with  all  the  problems  of 
government,  and  who  had  to  lead  his  soldiers  against  out- 
landish tribes — the  Quadi,  the  Marcomanni,  and  others. 
In  his  busy  career  of  practical  industry  one  would  hardly 
expect  such  a  man  to  find  opportunity  or  leisure  for  the 
kind  of  diary,  in  twelve  books,  which  he  has  bequeathed 
to  us.  Another  point  of  interest  is  that,  though  he  had 
the  inestimable  advantage  of  a  father  by  adoption,  Anto- 
ninus Pius,  to  whom  he  pays  a  remarkable  tribute  in  his 
opening  chapter,  he  was  himself  surrounded  with  figures 
of  the  ordinary  imperial  depravity.  His  wife,  Faustina, 
had  no  particularly  good  character,  although  probably 
some  of  the  stories  narrated  of  her  by  Dion  Cassius  and 
others  represent  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  scandal 
of  the  time.  At  all  events,  it  is  certain  that  his  son,  Corn- 
modus,  was  a  brutal  ruffian,  and  it  is  difficult  for  us  to 
understand  how  so  gentle,  so  cultured,  so  philosophic  a 
father  should  have  left  such  few  traces  of  his  personality 
on  the  upbringing  of  Commodus.  But  a  third  and  still 
more  important  element  in  our  interest  in  the  writings 
of  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus  is  that  he  was 
so  near  to,  and  yet  so  untouched  by,  Christianity.  If 
we  take  the  series  of  his  thoughts,  which  he  put  down, 
apparently,  day  by  day,  as  a  kind  of  private  commentary 
to  guide  his  own  career,  we  are  struck  over  and  over  again 
by  their  likeness  to  and  their  difference  from  Christian 
tenets.  The  thoughts  remind  us  of  the  Imitation,  especially 
in  their  constant  enunciation  of  the  necessity  for  a  definite 
purpose  for  human  beings,  some  specific  goal  or  object, 
which  is  to  save  men  from  stupid  and  idle  vacillation. 

109 


110    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Yet  Marcus  Aurelius'  reflections  are  not  Christian  in 
spirit ;  they  are  Stoic.  Together  with  the  writings  of  the 
enfranchised  slave,  Epictetus,  they  give  us  the  best  pos- 
sible picture  of  what  Stoicism  had  become  in  the  second 
century  A.D. 

Stoicism  was  a  creed  which  especially  recommended 
itself  to  the  Romans  from  the  very  earliest  time  of  its 
introduction,  because  in  many  ways  it  corresponded  with 
the  stout  and  intolerant  Roman  spirit,  with  its  natural 
love  of  independence  and  its  valiant  endurance  of  suffering. 
Stoicism  was  assuredly  not  Greek  in  spirit,  but  rather  the 
antithesis  of  the  Greek  idea.  To  the  best  Hellenic  writers, 
ethics — that  is  to  say,  the  private  morals  of  an  individual 
— were  inextricably  bound  up  with  politics,  the  laws  and 
conditions  by  which  States  preserve  their  integrity.  When 
the  Hellenic  system  was  broken  up,  two  forms  of  philosophy 
appeared,  both  in  a  manner  dependent  on  the  new  fact 
that  a  man  was  bound  to  regard  himself  not  as  a  citizen 
of  a  given  State,  but  as  a  citizen  of  the  world.  One  wras 
the  Epicurean  philosophy,  which  taught  the  calm  and 
dignified  pursuit  of  cultured  happiness.  The  other  was 
the  Stoic,  which  laid  stress  on  the  manly  virtues  of  inde- 
pendence and  strength  of  will.  In  the  breakdown  of  the 
old  constitutional  forms,  in  the  misery  and  unsettlement 
of  the  times,  the  Stoic  philosophers  invited  men  to  fall 
back  on  their  own  natural  powers  and  capabilities,  to  face 
the  problem  of  life  by  a  resolute  assertion  that  within  the 
four  corners  of  his  own  consciousness  man  was  free,  and 
the  proper  master  of  his  fate.  Roman  Stoicism,  of  course, 
took  various  forms.  In  the  writings  of  the  Emperor 
Marcus  Aurelius  these  tenets  are  represented  in  the  gentlest 
and  most  appealing  way,  albeit  that  they  are  not  divorced 
from  the  fundamental  principle  that  a  man  must  find  within 
himself  the  sources  of  his  own  strength.  And  so  we  come 
to  what,  apparently,  has  been  looked  upon  as  a  paradox — 
the  picture  of  an  Emperor,  with  all  the  weight  of  a  great 
kingdom  on  his  hands,  recommending  himself,  in  aphorism 
after  aphorism,  to  retire  within  the  citadel  of  his  own 
soul,  and  find  peace  and  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that 
reason  governed  the  universe.  For  that  is  the  keynote 
of  the  Emperor's  acquiescence.  The  principal  part  of  a 
man's  individuality  is  his  reason,  and  the  chief  principle 
of  the  universe  is  reason  also.  Whatever  happens  to  a  man 
must  be  what  is  best  for  the  whole  system  of  things,  and  he 


A   PHILOSOPHIC   EMPEROR        111 

must  extract  what  consolation  he  can  from  the  recognition 
that  he  is  part  of  a  universal  rational  order. 

And  this  is  the  man  who  possibly  had  an  unfaithful 
wife,  and  certainly  had  a  brutal  son,  and  who,  above  all, 
consented  to  the  persecution  of  Christians.  Two  persecu- 
tions, at  least,  of  Christians  happened  in  the  reign  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus — one  in  which  Polycarp  suffered 
at  Smyrna,  which  may  have  taken  place  in  A.D.  167,  and 
the  other  the  notorious  trials  at  Lyons  in  A.D.  177.  It  is 
difficult  for  us,  at  the  first  blush,  to  understand  how  so 
gentle  and  so  humane  an  Emperor  could  sanction  tortures 
for  Christians.  Perhaps  we  shall  never  quite  understand 
the  mystery,  for  we  cannot  put  ourselves  back  by  any  feat 
of  imagination  into  the  second  century,  and  we  cannot 
realise  that  the  religion  which  has  meant  so  much  for  a 
modern  world  should  have  been  regarded  at  that  time  as 
a  pernicious  and  detestable  superstition.  Trajan  and 
Hadrian  both  laid  down  certain  rules,  coming  practically 
to  this  :  that  if  a  Christian  would  recant,  he  should,  of 
course,  be  left  alone.  If  he  persisted  in  his  errors,  he  must 
suffer  the  penalty  for  his  contumacy.  One  feature  about 
the  Christian  communities,  which  is  constantly  being 
asserted  by  contemporary  authorities,  is  their  obstinacy. 
Mild  and  humane  men  like  our  Emperor  were,  of  course, 
latitudinarians.  They  accepted  the  established  paganism. 
They  gladly  gave  as  much  liberty  as  they  could  to  other 
faiths,  so  long  as  these  other  faiths  did  not  attack  the 
recognised  orthodoxy  of  Rome.  And  they  could  not 
understand  why  the  Christians  were  so  contumacious,  why 
they  so  strenuously  put  forward  their  own  faith  as  that 
which  must,  in  the  long  run,  conquer  paganism,  and  prove 
that  the  Roman  deities  were  either  devils  or  nothing.  We 
now  put  our  finger  upon  the  main  reason  why  the  Christians 
were  persecuted.  From  the  Roman  standpoint  they  were 
a  sort  of  religious  anarchists.  They  would  not  be  content 
with  cultivating  their  own  faith  in  secret.  They  were 
militant  and  polemical.  They  wanted  to  destroy  the  estab- 
lished creed.  To  these  considerations  we  must  add  the  fact 
that  there  was  a  very  large  amount  of  ignorance  about  the 
exact  tenets  of  Christianity,  and  that  a  number  of  Latin 
authors  saw  no  difference  between  them  and  the  Jews, 
who  were  always  seditious  and  always  troublesome.  One 
thing,  at  all  events,  is  certain  :  the  ordinary  population 
conceived  the  most  violent  hatred  of  Christians  and  Jews 


112    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

alike.  It  was  the  people  who  forced  the  hands  of  their 
Governors.  They  insisted  that  these  seditious  sects  should 
suffer  the  penalty  for  their  supposed  crimes.  It  was  in 
order  to  stop  menacing  revolutions  that  the  Governors 
not  only  exercised  their  own  authority,  but  appealed  to 
the  Emperor  to  sanction  their  legislative  acts  against  the 
Christians.  Of  two  things,  one:  Either  the  Empire 
must  go  on,  with  its  established  faiths,  and  in  that  case 
Christianity  must  be  put  down  with  all  the  severity  that 
flows  from  the  odium  theologicum  ;  or  else  the  frank  admis- 
sion must  be  made  that  paganism  was  effete  and  out-of- 
date.  No  one  can  expect  the  ordinary  Roman  Governor, 
or  even  an  ordinarily  enlightened  Emperor,  to  assent  at 
once  to  the  latter  alternative.  After  all,  the  real  excuse 
of  the  authorities  in  this  matter  is  that  conventional  excuse 
for  harassed  authority — that  the  business  of  the  Imperial 
government  must  go  on. 

§2 

The  first  thing  to  say  about  the  philosophic  system  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  is  that  it  is  not  a  system  at  all.  There  is 
nothing  systematic  in  the  occasional  and  discursive  remarks 
of  the  Emperor,  except  so  far  as  we  can  fit  them  into  the 
general  framework  of  thought  provided  by  the  Stoical 
philosophy.  The  circumstances  under  which  these  reflec- 
tions were  composed,  the  fact  that  they  were  occasional 
notes,  written  very  likely  when  the  Emperor  himself  was 
engaged  in  his  campaigns — the  general  nature  of  a  private 
diary,  which  is  always  present  to  our  minds  when  we  read 
the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius — preclude  the  notion 
that  we  have  to  deal  with  a  formally  constructed  treatise 
on  themes  connected  with  God,  the  world,  and  man.  One 
or  two  points,  however,  must  be  remembered  in  order  to 
explain  the  general  attitude  of  the  thinker.  The  Stoics 
believed  in  a  division  of  knowledge  between  dialectic  or 
logic,  ethics,  and  physics.  Later  on,  probably  by  Cleanthes, 
each  division  was  subdivided ;  and  thus  we  have  a  classifi- 
cation yielding  physics  and  theology,  ethics  and  politics, 
dialectic  and  rhetoric.  There  was  obviously  a  gain  in 
clearness  by  this  subdivision,  for  we  now  know  that, 
according  to  the  Stoical  point  of  view,  physics,  in  the 
largest  sense  of  the  word,  includes  theology,  or  the  con- 
stitution of  the  universe  as  a  divine  system;  and  that 


A  PHILOSOPHIC  EMPEROR        113 

the  proper  and  legitimate  notion  of  the  duties  incumbent 
on  a  human  being  involves  also  his  relation  to  a  given  state 
or  constitution.  Dialectic  or  logic  we  may  put  aside, 
for  it  makes  but  little  appearance  among  the  Meditations 
of  Marcus  Aurelius.  Another  point  material  to  our  in- 
quiry is  the  recognition  of  the  Stoical  principle  that  man 
ought  to  live  "  conformably  to  Nature."  Nature  is,  of 
course,  an  ambiguous  term,  and  may  mean  either  the 
normal  or  the  original.  It  may  mean  the  material,  or, 
from  a  more  enlarged  standpoint,  the  material  as  ordered 
and  arranged  by  a  divine  intelligence.  When  the  Stoic 
teachers  recommended  men  to  live  conformably  to  Nature, 
what  they  meant  was,  that  man  should  so  guide  his  life  that 
he,  a  part  of  the  universe,  should  move  in  unison  and 
harmony  with  the  totality  of  things.  They  meant,  also, 
something  more.  They  intended  to  indicate  that,  man's 
nature  being  modelled  on  the  larger  nature,  the  same 
principle  of  governance  or  direction  should  be  used  by  man 
in  his  own  concerns,  which  is  acted  on  by  Nature  herself 
on  the  larger  scale.  Thus,  for  instance,  man  is  composed, 
roughly,  of  two  parts — spiritual  and  material;  and  the 
Cosmos,  too,  is  composed  of  two  parts — material,  which 
the  Greeks  called  flfoj,  and  the  informing  reason  or  intelli- 

fence,  to  which  they  give  the  name  of  vovq.  Now  we 
now  the  world  as  a  determined  order  of  antecedents  and 
sequences,  of  causes  and  effects,  of  something  settled  and 
arranged  by  a  guiding  spirit,  which  makes  for  harmony  and 
order.  Here  is  a  model,  then,  for  our  own  careers.  The 
reason  should  guide ;  the  physical  properties  of  the  human 
being  should  obey.  But  there  must  be  a  settled  purpose 
in  man's  life,  some  goal  to  which  he  directs  his  efforts, 
some  ideal  which  he  seeks  to  realise.  If  in  the  conduct 
of  his  life  he  obeys  the  leading  principle  of  reason,  then  he 
is  acting  conformably  to  Nature,  which  also,  as  experi- 
ence shows  us,  is  arranged  on  lines  of  providence  and 
thought. 

So  far  we  move  without  any  difficulty,  because  we  are 
dealing  abstractly  with  general  and  easily  understood 
principles.  But,  as  Marcus  Aurelius  is  always  keen  to  tell 
us,  life  is  not  theory  but  action ;  and  it  is,  of  course,  action, 
experience,  the  daily  conduct,  which  are  of  the  greatest 
importance.  One  or  two  simple  rules  we  may  take  for  our 
help.  The  first  thing  to  remember  is,  that  man  is  intended 
to  be  social;  that  is  to  say,  he  is  one  unit  in  a  society 
i 


114    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

bigger  than  himself,   and  he  must  learn  the  lessons  of 
unselfishness.     He   cannot   pursue   his   own   good   to   the 
exclusion  of  that  of  his  neighbour.     He  has  hardly  any 
individual  rights,  apart  from  those  which  spring  from  the 
social   constitution   to  which  he  belongs.     He  must  not 
attempt  to  divorce  himself,  by  a  life  of  seclusion,  from 
the  life  of  the  community  at  large.     As  the  Scripture  re- 
minds us  :    "  We  must  bear  one  another's  burdens,"  "  We 
are  members  one  of  another."     In  such  maxims  plainly 
speaks  the  voice  of  an  Emperor  only  too  conscious  that 
upon  him  rests  the  imperial  duty  of  governing  his  kingdom, 
of  discharging  tasks  not  for  his  own  individual  aggrandise- 
ment, but  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole.     Other  salutary 
maxims  are  of  more  personal  application.     We  have  dis- 
covered that  the  guiding  principle  in   human  beings   is 
reason,  from  which  it  follows  that  we  must  not  yield  to 
the  persuasions  of  the  body.     We  must  not  be  conquered 
by  the  passions,  for  all  these  are  material.     We  must  be 
swayed  by  the  spiritual  or  intellectual  elements  within 
us.     We   must    acknowledge    the    superiority   of   reason. 
And  the  third  maxim  is,  that  so  far  as  lies  within  our  power, 
we  must  free  ourselves   from  deception   and  error.     The 
senses  are  always  deceiving  us.     So,  too,  are  the  vague 
opinions  of  men.     Just  as  we  must  not  mistake  the  mere 
impressions  on  our  senses  for  truths  established  by  reason, 
so  we  must  not  be  led  astray  by  the  general  estimation 
which  men  place  on  what  they  call  things  of  importance. 
If  we  trusted  our  senses,  for  instance,  we  might  suppose 
that  a  mere  pleasurable  gratification,  the  chance  offspring 
of  a  momentary  temptation,  was  preferable  to  the  ordered 
discipline  of  experience.     Or,  to  put  it  in  our  modern  way, 
if  we  trusted  our  senses  we  might  think  that  the  sun  rose 
every  morning  and  set  every  evening,  and  that  the  dew 
came  down  from  above  instead  of  rising  from  below.     We 
might  think,  in  short,  that  the  sun  went  round  the  earth 
instead  of  the  earth  round  the  sun,  and  that  the  stars  in 
the  heavens  at  large  were  made  for  the  use  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  our  petty  world.     Intelligence,  thought,  science, 
correct  vulgar  errors.     And,  in  precisely  the  same  fashion, 
we  ought  each  of  us  to  be  able  to  correct  vulgar  errors 
about  the  objects  of  human  pursuit.     What  is  the  good 
of  worrying  about  wealth,  or  reputation,  or  even  sickness, 
or  even  death  itself?     Some  of  these  things   belong   to 
the  class  of  what  Marcus  Aurelius  calls  the  indifferent, 


A  PHILOSOPHIC   EMPEROR        115 

adiacpoga.     Others    are    beyond    the    range    of    our    own 
power,  and  must  come  upon  us,  whether  we  will  or  no. 
The  wise  man  will  not  disturb  himself  about  indifferent 
matters,  or  the  things  outside  the  range  of  his  own  control. 
What  he  is  concerned  with  is  the  ordering  of  his  own  soul, 
so  that  he  may  win  for  himself  recognised  virtuous  states — 
courage,  justice,  temperance — and  obtain  the  tranquillity 
which  is  the  reward  of  philosophic  self-control.     Every- 
where our  knowledge  is  limited  by  our  ignorance.     We  do 
not  know  very  much — or  rather,  we  know  very  little — 
about  the  ultimate  constitution  of  things.     It  is  enough 
for  us  to  realise  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  world  which  is 
not  accidental  or  haphazard,  but  which  evolves  or  develops, 
as  we  should  phrase  it,  according  to  a  settled  plan.     We 
are  in  the  hands  of  reason,  of  a  providence  which  is  intelli- 
gent, and  if  we  train  ourselves  properly  we  shall  be  masters 
of  our  own  soul,  so  as  to  order  our  lives  rationally  and 
intelligently.     Some   men   will   say   (so   Marcus   Aurelius 
argues  in  one  passage),  How  do  you  know  there  are  gods, 
when  you  do  not  see  them  ?    And  to  this  he  answers  that 
in  the  first  place  you  do  see  them,  for  the  universe  at  large 
shows  you  in  the  laws  of  Nature  the  existence  of  divine 
foresight.     In  the  next  place,  you  do  not  see  your  own  soul ; 
yet  every  rational  man  believes  that  he  has  within  himself 
an  individuality  of  his  own,  and  that  he  can  guide  his 
affairs  with  discretion.     Whether  God  created  the  universe 
at  any  given  moment,  or  whether  it  has  existed  from  all 
eternity,  are  unprofitable  questions.     We  do  not  wholly 
understand  how  the  universe  of  things  is  kept  together — 
whether  by  a  constant   assertion  of  divine  power,  or  by 
the   establishment   of  "  seminal   principles,"    which   ever 
afterwards  carry  out  their  own  effects.     But  it  really  does 
not  matter  very  much.     Everywhere  there  are  gods.     If 
we  live,  we  are  surrounded  by  them,  and  wherever  we  go 
when  we  die,  there,  too,  will  be  gods.     Death  itself  is  not 
a  formidable  thing — no  more  formidable  than  birth.     We 
were  nothing,  and  we  became  something.     We  cease  to  be 
something,  and  become  nothing.     Everywhere  throughout 
the  universe  there  is  change,  dispersion  of  elements,  and 
fresh  aggregation  of  elements.      Things    fade,    and   die, 
and  revive.     It  is  the  idlest  of  all  stupidities  to  fret  or 
worry  over  the  way  in  which  the  universe  has  been  made. 
Thus  the  philosophy  of  Marcus  Aurelius  is,  above  all,  that 
which  is  suited  to  harassed  men. 


116    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 


§  3 

In  his  brilliant  article  on  Marcus  Aurelius  in  the  Essays 
in  Criticism,  Matthew  Arnold  makes  some  remarks  on  the 
contrast  between  the  Emperor's  ethical  position  and  that 
of  Christianity.  Such  comparisons  are  not  altogether 
profitable,  for  the  respective  principles  are  not  to  be  com- 
pared. The  primary  appeal  of  the  Stoical  philosophy  is 
to  the  head,  the  brain,  the  reasoning  powers.  The  Stoic 
wise  man  is  he  who,  through  sheer  strength  of  intelligence, 
having  discovered  all  that  is  of  consequence  in  life,  and 
put  aside  all  that  is  unessential,  dominates  himself  and  his 
fate,  and  lives  the  complete  master  of  his  own  life.  This 
tenet  about  the  wise  man  brought  the  Stoics  into  a  good 
deal  of  criticism  and  ridicule,  because  such  an  ideal  person 
has  never  existed,  and  never  could  exist,  and,  as  Horace 
laughingly  remarks,  if  he  had  a  cold  in  his  head,  his  ideal 
dignity  would  be  very  largely  impaired.  But  the  picture 
which  Marcus  Aurelius  tries  to  present  is  more  human, 
and  more  sensible.  He  does  not  claim  such  masterful 
authority  for  the  wise  man.  In  the  simplest  conceivable 
fashion  he  goes  through  some  of  the  ordinary  difficulties 
of  life,  and  shows  how  a  philosopher,  by  dint  of  his  reason- 
ing powers,  by  going  back  in  every  case  to  first  principles, 
manages  to  carve  out  for  himself  a  career  not  absolutely 
happy,  but  at  least  contented  and  estimable.  Happiness 
as  such  was  not  the  object  of  the  Stoic  philosophy.  Con- 
tentment, the  absence  of  worry,  the  power  of  self-control, 
complacency,  decorum,  self-respect — these  are  the  things 
at  which  the  Emperor  aims,  and  which,  so  far  as  we  know, 
he  attained  to  a  large  extent  in  the  course  of  his  life. 

But  it  is  obvious,  of  course,  that  this  picture  of  humanity 
can  only  be  realised  on  the  ground  that  the  ordinary  feelings 
and  emotions  are  either  sacrificed  or  ruthlessly  kept  under 
constraint.  The  primary  appeal  of  Christianity  is  not  so 
much  to  the  head  as  to  the  heart.  The  first  principle  of 
the  Christian  religion  is  the  power  of  love;  and  at  once 
we  are  conscious  that  we  are  in  a  different  domain,  with 
appeals  of  a  very  different  kind  of  cogency,  and  an  ideal 
which,  so  far  from  obliterating  feeling,  purifies  and  en- 
nobles it.  Neither  Christianity  nor  Stoicism  would  assert 
that  happiness  was  the  end  of  life.  The  Christian  relegates 
it  practically  to  another  world.  But  what  we  notice  is, 


A  PHILOSOPHIC  EMPEROR        117 

that  whereas  the  ideally  good  man  of  the  Stoic  is  a  slightly 
inhuman  creature,  the  ideal  figure  of  the  Christian  is  a 
thoroughly  and  completely  human  being,  who,  believing 
in  self-sacrifice,  devotes  himself,  through  sheer  love,  to  the 
good  of  his  brothers.  Of  course,  for  this  reason  Chris- 
tianity can  powerfully  affect  the  average  man,  whereas 
the  doctrines  of  Stoicism  are,  at  the  most,  for  the  elect 
and  the  thoughtful. 

There  is  another  point  which  arises  out  of  Matthew 
Arnold's  discussion  of  the  Meditations.  He  notes  in  the 
Roman  Emperor  a  certain  wistfulness,  as  though,  when  all 
was  said  and  done,  something  more  were  wanted  to  satisfy 
the  ordinary  needs  and  aspirations  of  the  soul.  Every 
reader  of  the  Meditations  will  judge  for  himself  whether 
this  criticism  is  justified  or  not.  For  myself,  I  do  not  see 
the  wistfulness  so  much  as  an  occasional  uncertainty. 
For  the  most  part,  Marcus  Aurelius  lays  down  his  opinions 
before  us  as  though  they  reconciled  him  to  life.  Now  and 
again  it  is  not  so.  Occasionally  he  is  invaded  by  a  distinct 
phase  of  scepticism,  as  though  what  had  hitherto  seemed 
clear  had  suddenly  become  obscure,  and  he  was  not  quite 
sure  whether  the  first  principles  to  which  he  throughout 
trusted  were  in  every  respect  trustworthy.  A  very  signifi- 
cant passage  of  this  kind  is  to  be  found  at  the  end  of  the 
seventh  book,  in  the  last  paragraph.  The  passage  itself 
is  somewhat  obscure  and  probably  corrupt,  but  the  general 
meaning  is  tolerably  obvious.  The  things  which  make  for 
man's  peace  are  the  assurances  which  we  derive  from 
study  and  experience  that  the  whole  constitution  of  things 
is  governed  by  reason,  that  the  chains  of  cause  and  effect 
go  on  in  accordance  with  a  settled  law,  and  that  whatever 
the  end  may  be  of  the  whole  development,  it  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  such  reason  and  intelligence  as  exist  in  us. 
But  there  is  an  alternative  supposition,  and  it  is  one  to 
which,  in  moments  of  weakness,  vacillation,  and  doubt, 
the  thinker  is  sometimes  tempted.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
reason  does  not  guide  the  universe.  Perhaps  the  whole 
Cosmos  is  the  result  of  chance,  a  fortuitous  concourse  of 
atoms,  the  final  end  of  which  no  one  can  foretell.  And 
perhaps  men  are  not  rationally  directed,  but  are  mere 
puppets,  drawn  this  way  and  that — automata,  whose  very 
consciousness  of  their  fate  only  makes  their  automatism 
the  more  pathetic.  This  is  not  a  mood  which  is  in  any 
sense  habitual  to  Marcus  Aurelius,  but  it  is  discoverable 


118    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

sometimes.  The  extent  of  our  knowledge  is  only  very 
small.  We  do  not  know  how  God  exists,  or  how  He  works, 
and  the  aspirations  of  faith  are  not  always  borne  out  by 
the  operations  of  thought.  Perhaps  this  is  what  Matthew 
Arnold  means  by  "  wistfulness "  ;  but  it  seems  more  like 
that  kind  of  uncertainty  which  besets  any  thinker  when 
he  gets  near  ultimate  problems. 

On  another  feature  belonging  to  the  Stoical  system 
Marcus  Aurelius  lays  down  no  precise  judgment.  The 
Stoic  thought  that  it  was  one  of  the  privileges  of  the  wise 
man  that  he  should  be  able  to  take  himself  out  of  exist- 
ence by  his  own  act  whenever  he  found  life  intolerable. 
Some  of  the  Stoics  thanked  God  for  the  eternal  law  that, 
though  we  are  only  given  one  way  of  entering  into  life> 
there  are  many  ways  of  going  out  of  it.  Such  was  Seneca's 
view ;  and  one  or  two  Stoics  committed  suicide  for  reasons 
which  seemed  satisfactory  to  themselves,  but  which  hardly 
produced  conviction  in  others.  On  the  whole,  it  would 
seem  that  the  Emperor  does  not  encourage  suicide.  On 
the  contrary,  the  general  trend  of  his  remarks  is,  to  induce 
a  man  to  wait  for  the  end  patiently  and  with  tranquillity. 
As  long  as  he  lives  a  man  can  do  useful  acts.  He  ought 
not  to  abridge  his  possible  usefulness  by  a  hasty  departure 
from  the  scene  of  action.  Still  we  find  a  significant  sen- 
tence which  we  may,  if  we  like,  interpret  as  a  recommenda- 
tion to  suicide  :  "  The  house  is  smoky,  and  I  quit  it." 
But  suicide  is  not  quite  in  conformity  with  the  general 
notion  that  a  man  is  part  of  a  social  state,  that  he  has 
his  role  to  play — from  which  it  follows  that  it  must  be  some- 
thing like  a  clear  dereliction  of  duty  if  he  takes  himself 
away.  Nor  yet  is  Marcus  Aurelius  quite  clear  as  to  what 
happens  to  us  after  death.  He  cannot  assent  to  the  doctrine 
that  the  soul,  which  is  part  of  the  Divine,  should  perish 
utterly,  for  no  portion  of  the  Divinity  can  perish.  But 
what  form  of  existence  the  soul  enjoys  after  human  life 
is  a  matter  which  cannot  be  solved  by  philosophy,  and 
which,  therefore,  the  philosopher  wisely  leaves  alone.  A 
man  need  not  worry,  however.  God  or  the  gods  will  do 
whatever  is  best  or  most  consistent  with  the  whole  Cosmos 
of  things.  In  the  next  world  there  are  gods  quite  as  much 
as  in  this. 

After  all,  that  which  gives  Marcus  Aurelius  his  immor- 
tality is  the  fact  that  the  book  of  his  Meditations  is  one  to 
which  we  turn  again  and  again  in  the  certain  hope  of  finding 


A  PHILOSOPHIC   EMPEROR        119 

consolation  and  help.  It  is  a  bedside  book,  if  ever  there 
was  one — a  book  not  to  be  read  through  at  a  stretch,  but 
to  be  taken  up  when  occasion  serves,  full  of  wise  and  grave 
maxims,  which  never  lose  their  pertinence  or  value.  And 
it  is  not  only  because  the  reflections  themselves  have  such 
philosophic  weight  that  we  take  them  to  our  hearts;  it  is 
because  the  author  has  revealed  his  own  nature  in  all  he 
has  said,  and  the  character  of  Marcus  Aurelius  is  one  which 
it  is  good  for  us  to  know.  In  this  Emperor,  with  all  his 
grave  responsibilities  of  empire,  we  find  a  temperament  of 
rare  sweetness  and  humility,  of  tender  affectionateness,  of 
unfailing  sympathy,  of  the  most  strenuous  and  unwearied 
effort  towards  an  ideal  goal.  Other  men  may  do  good 
because  they  think  that  good  will  be  done  to  them.  Not 
so  the  Emperor.  Goodness  is  never  on  the  look-out  for  any 
reward.  Take,  for  instance,  this — 

(V,  6.)  One  man,  when  he  has  done  a  service  to  another,  is  ready  to  set 
it  down  to  his  account  as  a  favour  conferred.  Another  is  not  ready  to  do 
this ;  but  still  in  his  own  mind  he  thinks  of  the  man  as  his  debtor,  and  he 
knows  what  he  has  done.  A  third  in  a  manner  does  not  even  know  what 
he  has  done ;  but  he  is  like  a  vine  which  has  produced  grapes,  and  seeks 
for  nothing  more  after  it  has  once  produced  its  proper  fruit.  As  a  horse 
when  he  has  run,  a  dog  when  he  has  tracked  the  game,  a  bee  when  it  has 
made  the  honey,  so  a  man  when  he  has  done  a  good  act  does  not  call  out  for 
others  to  come  and  see,  but  he  goes  on  to  another  act,  as  a  vine  goes  on  to 
produce  again  the  grapes  in  season.  Must  a  man  then  be  one  of  these,  who 
in  a  manner  act  thus  without  observing  it  ?  Yes. 

Or  as  mere  current  maxims  to  help  us  through  the  weary 
day,  read  the  first  section  with  which  the  fifth  chapter 
opens — 

In  the  morning  when  thou  risest  unwillingly,  let  this  thought  be  present — 
I  am  rising  to  the  work  of  a  human  being.  Why  then  am  I  dissatisfied  if 
I  am  going  to  do  the  things  for  which  I  exist  and  for  which  I  was  brought 
into  the  world  ?  Or  have  I  been  made  for  this,  to  lie  in  the  bed-clothes 
and  keep  myself  warm  ?  But  this  is  more  pleasant — Dost  thou  exist  then 
to  take  thy  pleasure,  and  not  at  all  for  action  or  exertion  ? 

Or  again,  in  the  same  strain — 

(II,  1.)  Begin  the  morning  by  saying  to  thyself,  I  shall  meet  with  the 
busybody,  the  ungrateful,  arrogant,  deceitful,  envious,  unsocial.  All 
these  things  happen  to  them  by  reason  of  their  ignorance  of  what  is  good 
and  evil.  But  I  who  have  seen  the  nature  of  the  good  that  it  is  beautiful, 
and  of  the  bad  that  it  is  ugly,  and  the  nature  of  him  who  does  wrong,  that 
it  is  akin  to  me,  not  (only)  of  the  same  blood  or  seed,  but  that  it  participates 
in  (the  same)  intelligence  and  (the  same)  portion  of  the  divinity,  I  can 
neither  be  injured  by  any  of  them,  for  no  one  can  fix  on  me  what  is  ugly, 


120    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

nor  can  I  be  angry  with»  my  kinsman,  nor  hate  him.  For  we  are  made  for 
co-operation,  like  feet,  like  hands,  like  eyelids,  like  the  rows  of  the  upper 
and  lower  teeth.  To  act  against  one  another  then  is  contrary  to  nature ; 
and  it  is  acting  against  one  another  to  be  vexed  and  to  turn  away. 

Other  maxims  of  a  like  import  may  be  cited — 

(IV,  24.)  Occupy  thyself  with  few  things,  says  the  philosopher,  if  thou 
wouldst  be  tranquil.  But  consider  if  it  would  not  be  better  to  say,  Do 
what  is  necessary,  and  whatever  the  reason  of  the  animal,  which  is  naturally 
social,  requires,  and  as  it  requires.  For  this  brings  not  only  the  tran- 
quillity which  comes  from  doing  well,  but  also  that  which  comes  from 
doing  few  things.  For  the  greatest  part  of  what  we  say  and  do  being 
unnecessary,  if  a  man  takes  this  away,  he  will  have  more  leisure  and  less 
uneasiness.  Accordingly,  on  every  occasion  a  man  should  ask  himself, 
Is  this  one  of  the  unnecessary  things?  Now  a  man  should  take  away 
not  only  unnecessary  acts,  but  also  unnecessary  thoughts,  for  thus  super- 
fluous acts  will  not  follow  after. 

Or  this— 

(V,  11.)  About  what  am  I  now  employing  my  own  soul?  On  every 
occasion  I  must  ask  myself  this  question,  and  inquire :  What  have  I  now 
in  this  part  of  me  which  they  call  the  ruling  principle  ?  And  whose  soul 
have  I  now  ?  That  of  a  child,  or  of  a  young  man,  or  of  a  feeble  woman,  or 
of  a  tyrant,  or  of  a  domestic  animal,  or  of  a  wild  beast  ? 

Or  once  more — 

(V,  16.)  Such  as  are  thy  habitual  thoughts,  such  also  will  be  the  charac- 
ter of  thy  mind ;  for  the  soul  is  dyed  by  the  thoughts.  Dye  it,  then,  with 
a  continuous  series  of  such  thoughts  as  these  :  for  instance,  that  where  a 
man  can  live,  there  he  can  also  live  well.  But  he  must  live  in  a  palace ; — 
well,  then,  he  can  also  live  well  in  a  palace. 

Are  you  afraid  to  die?  Listen,  then,  to  what  the 
Emperor  says — 

(X,  36.)  Thou  wilt  consider  this,  then,  when  thou  art  dying,  and  thou 
wilt  depart  more  contentedly  by  reflecting  thus  :  I  am  going  away  from 
such  a  life  in  which  even  my  associates,  in  behalf  of  whom  I  have  striven 
so  much,  prayed,  and  cared,  themselves  wish  me  to  depart,  hoping  per- 
chance to  get  some  little  advantage  by  it.  Why,  then,  should  a  man  cling 
to  a  longer  stay  here?  Do  not,  however,  for  this  reason  go  away  less 
kindly  disposed  to  them,  but  preserving  thy  own  character,  and  friendly 
and  benevolent  and  mild,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  not  as  if  thou  wast  torn 
away ;  but  as  when  a  man  dies  a  quiet  death,  the  poor  soul  is  easily  separ- 
ated from  the  body,  such  also  ought  thy  departure  from  men  to  be,  for 
Nature  united  thee  to  them  and  associated  thee.  But  does  she  now  dis- 
solve the  union  ?  Well,  I  am  separated  as  from  kinsmen,  not,  however, 
dragged  resisting,  but  without  compulsion;  for  this,  too,  is  one  of  the 
things  according  to  Nature. 

After  all,  it  is  almost  inconceivable  that  if  the  world  be 


A  PHILOSOPHIC  EMPEROR          121 

ruled  by  Divine  Providence,  goodness  should  be  destroyed 
by  death. 

(XII,  5.)  How  can  it  be  that  the  gods,  after  having  arranged  all  things 
well  and  benevolently  for  mankind,  have  overlooked  this  alone,  that  some 
men  and  very  good  men,  and  men  who,  as  we  may  say,  have  had  most 
communion  with  the  divinity,  and  through  pious  acts  and  religious  ob- 
servances have  been  most  intimate  with  the  divinity,  when  they  have  once 
died  should  never  exist  again,  but  should  be  completely  extinguished  ? 

And  the  Meditations  end  on  a  fine  note  of  philoso- 
phic dignity,  wherein  Marcus  Aurelius  resumes  all  that  he 
has  felt  about  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  necessity  for 
contentment. 

(XII,  36.)  Man,  thou  hast  been  a  citizen  in  this  great  state  (the  world) : 
what  difference  does  it  make  to  thee  whether  for  five  years  (or  three  ?)  for 
that  which  is  conformable  to  the  laws  is  just  for  all.  Where  is  the  hard- 
ship, then,  if  no  tyrant  nor  yet  an  unjust  judge  sends  thee  away  from  the 
state,  but  Nature  who  brought  thee  into  it  ?  the  same  as  if  a  praetor  who 
has  employed  an  actor  dismisses  him  from  the  stage — "  But  I  have  not 
finished  the  five  acts,  but  only  three  of  them."  Thou  sayest  well,  but  in 
life  the  three  acts  are  the  whole  drama;  for  what  shall  be  a  complete 
drama  is  determined  by  him  who  was  once  the  cause  of  its  composition, 
and  now  of  its  dissolution :  but  thou  art  the  cause  of  neither.  Depart, 
then,  satisfied,  for  he  also  who  releases  thee  is  satisfied. 

Such  was  the  gentle  and  philosophic  Emperor,  a  model 
for  all  men  in  whatever  condition  of  life  they  may  find 
themselves,  giving  apt  consolation  to  those  who  are  per- 
plexed, and  always  suggesting  fine  ideals  to  those  who  know 
how  to  be  humble  and  simple.  Simplicity,  indeed,  is  one 
of  the  Emperor's  chief  recommendations,  for,  as  he  says, 
after  telling  us  to  be  just,  temperate,  obedient  to  the  gods, 
we  must  do  all  this  with  simplicity,  because  "  the  pride 
which  is  proud  of  its  want  of  pride  is  the  most  intolerable 
of  all." 


THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY.— I 

§  1 

SOME  years  ago  I  wrote  certain  essays  under  the  title  "  The 
Idea  of  Tragedy."  I  want  in  the  present  and  the  succeed- 
ing paper  to  say  something  on  the  corresponding  subject 
of  "  The  Idea  of  Comedy,"  my  effort  being  to  disentangle 
from  the  variety  of  different  plays  which  have  come  under 
the  general  head  of  Comedy  the  essential  idea  of  this  form 
of  dramatic  work.  And  it  is  by  no  means  an  easy  thing  to 
do,  because  the  very  meaning  of  the  word  has  changed  in 
different  periods  of  history,  and  the  term  has  been  taken  to 
cover  a  wide  range  of  theatrical  work.  There  is  only  one 
way  to  proceed  in  a  case  like  this.  We  must  determine  in 
our  own  mind  what  is  the  highest  specimen,  the  finest 
flower  of  the  comic  spirit,  and  when  this  has  been  settled 
we  shall  be  able  to  appreciate  the  various  approaches  made 
to  it,  and  estimate  the  success  or  failure,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  supreme  excellence.  Where  shall  we  find 
the  highest  examples  of  the  comic  spirit  ?  I  do  not  think 
there  is  much  doubt  that  the  real  writer  of  comedies,  the 
man  who  discovered  the  proper  formula  of  this  kind  of 
work,  and  left  imperishable  examples  of  his  dramatic  skill 
and  aptitude,  was  Moliere. 

In  George  Meredith's  well-known  "  Essay  on  Comedy  " 
— an  authoritative  work  which  no  one  would  omit  consider- 
ing in  this  reference — the  whole  idea  and  stamp  of  what 
comedy  means  is  founded  on  the  polite  and  distinguished 
plays  of  Moliere,  and  also  of  Congreve,  types  of  that  kind 
of  work  which  is  only  possible  in  a  highly  civilised  society 
of  men  and  women  of  taste  and  breeding,  met  for  the 
exchange  of  verbal  wit  and  fashionable  intrigue.  This 
high  comedy  is,  of  course,  essentially  different  from  the 
lower  types,  descending  into  the  region  of  farce,  which  often 
usurp  its  name.  George  Meredith  gives  us  a  definition 

122 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  123 

which  it  will  be  useful  to  remember,  for  its  value  will  be 
apparent  later,  when  he  says  that  the  kind  of  comedy  to 
which  he  is  referring  is  that  which  produces  "  thoughtful 
laughter" 

Thoughtful  laughter — it  is  a  good  phrase.  We  laugh  at 
a  farce,  we  laugh  at  all  kinds  of  burlesque  entertainments, 
we  laugh  at  pantomimes,  we  laugh  at  the  grotesque  humour 
of  some  of  the  artists  in  a  Revue.  But  this  kind  of  laughter 
could  not  possibly  be  called  thoughtful ;  it  rather  rests  on 
the  absence  of  all  thought,  and  comes  more  naturally  from 
a  vacuous  mind.  It  may  be  irresistible,  but  it  is  not 
dignified.  Thoughtful  laughter  is  a  different  experience, 
which  does  not  come  to  us  often.  It  is  an  inner  experience 
— a  sort  of  internal  chuckle — which  does  not  display  external 
manifestations.  It  is  the  enjoyment  of  the  intellect  when 
situations,  or  characters,  or,  sometimes,  phrases  strike  one 
as  happy  exhibitions  of  humour. 

The  distinction  between  comedy  and  farce  is  in  some  cases 
not  easy  to  make,  but  as  a  general  rule  we  can  apprehend 
the  fundamental  difference  between  the  two  in  the  following 
fashion.  In  a  farce  the  situations  are  the  main  thing,  and 
they  condition  character;  or,  in  other  words,  character 
is  a  negligible  thing  if  the  situations  are  amusing.  In 
comedy,  on  the  other  hand,  the  character  of  the  personages 
conditions,  or  creates,  the  situation.  The  situation  does 
not  exist  for  itself,  but  in  order  to  illustrate  the  personages 
involved.  But  comedy  itself  has  different  types.  There 
is  comedy  which  is  a  form  of  burlesque ;  comedy  which  is 
a  department  of  romance ;  comedy  whose  main  subject  is 
the  succession  of  comic  incidents;  comedy  which  deals 
with  manners — changing  manners  and  fashions  of  a  time — 
and  comedy  which  deals  with  character.  A  comedy  which 
is  for  the  most  past  burlesque  extravaganza  is  exemplified, 
let  us  say,  in  Aristophanes ;  romantic  comedy  is  the  especial 
gift  of  Shakespeare;  for  comedy  of  incidents  we  look 
naturally  to  the  Italian  school,  verging  on  farce;  for  the 
comedy  of  manners  let  us  select  our  own  Restoration 
dramatists.  The  comedy  of  character  remains,  which  we 
naturally  attribute  to  Moliere.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Moliere's  comedies  are  typical  of  their  class,  because  they 
combine  earlier  varieties.  You  have  a  comedy  of  manners 
and  also  a  comedy  of  incident,  but  these  are  made  to  serve 
the  main  purpose,  which  is  to  exhibit  character.  In  pieces 
like  Les  Femmes  Savantes,  Le  Misanthrope,  L'Avare, 


124    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Tartuffe,  and  others  we  have  a  full  and  complete  exhibition 
of  the  comic  spirit. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  not  easy  to  disentangle  the  idea  of 
comedy.  Why  is  it  difficult  ?  The  first  thing  to  notice  is 
that  comedy  has  been  found  difficult  by  writers.  One  would 
be  naturally  inclined  to  say  that  comedy  must  be  easier 
to  write  than  tragedy.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  history  seems 
to  prove  that  it  is  more  difficult.  Almost  everywhere 
tragedy  comes  first  in  literature.  uEschylus,  Sophocles, 
and  Euripides  in  Greek  drama,  produced  their  tragedies, 
carried  to  a  high  level  and  pinnacle  of  excellence  their 
tragic  plays,  before  comedy  began.  Aristophanes  is 
supposed  to  have  turned  the  attention  of  the  Athenian 
public  to  comic  themes.  That,  however,  is  what  is  known 
as  the  older  comedy,  succeeded  by  the  middle  and  the  new. 
The  man  who  discovered  the  true  formula  was  Menander. 
He  belongs  to  the  new  comedy.  We  ascribe,  without 
much  hesitation,  to  him  this  honour,  because  he  was  so 
extensively  imitated  and  admired  in  subsequent  timeg. 
Terence,  the  Roman  dramatist,  was  his  constant  imitator. 
Without  Menander,  apparently,  there  would  have  been  no 
Terence,  though  there  might  have  been  Plautus.  Of 
Menander  himself,  unfortunately,  we  know  but  little.  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  could  have  been  very  much  appreciated 
during  his  lifetime.  He  lived  between  342  B.C.  and  291 
B.C.  He  wrote  one  hundred  comedies,  and  only  gained  the 
prize  eight  times.  He  had  a  rival,  not  only  in  dramatic 
art,  but  also  in  personal  affection  towards  a  lady  called 
Glycera — the  writer  Philemon,  who  probably  was  more 
popular  than  he  was.  The  story  goes,  which  is  repeated 
for  us  by  Aulus  Gellius,  that  Menander  used  to  ask  Phile- 
mon, "  Don't  you  feel  ashamed  whenever  you  gain  the 
victory  over  me?"  Philemon's  answer  is  not  recorded. 
Subsequently  Menander  became  the  idol,  the  superlatively 
favourite  writer  of  antiquity.  Even  St.  Paul  quoted  him. 
In  the  First  Corinthians,  fifteenth  chapter,  verse  33,  is  found 
the  text,  "  Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners." 
This  was  one  of  the  moral  maxims  of  the  dramatist,  moral 
maxims  of  which  he  was  fond,  apparently,  such  as  these  : 
"  The  property  of  friends  is  common,"  and  the  much- 
quoted  "  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young." 

Lately  we  have  discovered  a  little  more  about  Menander, 
for  between  the  ten  years — 1897  to  1907 — certain  papyri 
were  found  in  various  parts  of  Egypt  containing  large 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  125 

fragments  of  Menander's  comedies.  Even  now,  however, 
we  do  not  know  much  about  him,  but  enough  to  be  pretty 
sure  that  he  achieved  in  his  day  what  Moliere  achieved  many 
years  later — the  comedy  of  manners  in  the  first  place,  and 
also  of  character  exemplified  in  manners.  Perhaps  the  slow 
growth  of  his  frame  was  to  be  explained  by  this  very  fact 
which  is  occupying  our  attention,  namely,  that  the  discovery 
of  the  essential  idea  of  comedy  is  of  a  late  growth.  Do  we 
wish  for  another  example  of  this  in  our  own  literature  ? 
There  is  none  better  than  is  furnished  by  Shakespeare 
himself.  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  found  no  particular 
difficulty  in  arriving  at  the  idea  of  tragedy.  Perhaps  he 
found  the  form  all  ready  for  him,  in  this  respect — in 
Christopher  Marlowe,  for  instance;  but  there  was  no 
form  ready  for  him  in  comedy,  and  therefore  he  made 
a  series  of  different  tentative  efforts  in  this  direction, 
not  always  with  success.  We  find  much  the  same  result 
if  we  look  at  the  history  of  dramatic  literature  in  France. 
Corneille  achieved  his  tragedies  before  the  time  when 
he  made  some  hesitating  advances  in  the  direction  of 
comedy,  and  only  after  many  efforts  did  Moliere  succeed 
in  achieving  his  splendid  representation  of  manners  and 
morals  and  character. 


§2 

Thus  comedy,  it  would  seem,  is  a  late  and  difficult 
acquisition.  Let  us  ask  ourselves  why.  One  obvious 
answer  is,  that  comedy  deals  with  everyday  life,  with  which 
we  are  all  familiar,  and  about  which  we  all  claim  to  be 
judges.  Tragedy  introduces  standards  which  we  cannot 
always  verify  out  of  our  own  experience;  therefore,  we 
do  not  claim  to  be  adequate  judges,  and  the  writer  of  tragedy 
escapes  a  censure  which  is  only  too  ready  and  waiting  for 
the  writer  of  comedy.  If  I  write  a  novel  of  which  the  scene 
and  the  characters  are  in  some  fanciful  region,  there  is 
nothing  to  curb  my  invention.  But  if  I  write  a  novel 
dealing  with  everyday  life  then  my  condemnation  is  easy 
in  the  mouth  of  those  who  say  that  I  have  betrayed  re- 
markable ignorance  of  actual  facts.  We  can  get  another 
reason  for  this  superior  difficulty  of  comedy  in  the  fact  that 
the  best  and  most  perfect  specimens  of  comedy  depend  on 
a  large  amount  of  contemporary  culture  and  civilisation. 


126    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Society  must  be  pretty  well  fixed  in  its  prevalent  character- 
istics before  men  are  in  a  position  to  treat  it  lightly  and  to 
allow  themselves  to  laugh  at  some  of  its  forms.  You  must 
be  tolerably  sure  of  your  religious  faith  before  you  can 
afford  to  be  humorous  about  it.  You  must  be  equally 
certain  of  the  main  principles  which  underlie  both  ethical 
and  social  structures  before  you  dare  to  be  humorous  about 
them.  So,  too,  a  real  comedy  of  manners  and  character 
combined  can  only  be  the  product  of  a  tolerably  advanced 
civilisation  which  is  so  convinced  of  its  real  stability  that  it 
is  not  shocked  by  the  gay  points  of  witty  and  cynical  humour 
expended  on  its  satirical  illustration.  "It  is  a  strange 
enterprise,"  said  Moliere,  "  to  make  honest  folk  laugh." 
Why  is  it  strange  ?  Because  it  is  arbitrary.  Comedy  is 
in  its  essence  a  purely  arbitrary  product.  If  you  take  life 
simply  and  naturally,  you  will  readily  discover  some  of 
its  grave  and  menacing  problems.  You  will  find  out  the 
tragic  elements  in  existence  without  much  difficulty,  and 
you  will  feel  your  mind  depressed  with  the  burden  of  things, 
and  write,  if  you  have  the  dramatic  gift,  studies  exhibiting 
to  the  full  the  perplexities,  the  high  emotions,  the  profound 
love  and  equally  profound  despair  which  such  problems 
involve.  And  now  look  at  the  procedure  of  the  comedian. 
He  is  going  to  try  to  make  you  laugh  at  the  very  things 
which  would  naturally  urge  you  to  tears.  He  is  going  to 
abstract  from  the  panorama  of  existence  certain  types  of 
human  character  which  he  insists  on  regarding  as  occasions 
for  mirth  and  laughter.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  the  laughter 
is  nervous  enough,  so  nervous  that  we  suspect  that  the 
author  is  in  a  hurry  to  laugh  for  fear  that  he  should  cry. 
Sometimes  his  comic  spirit  is  the  issue  of  a  really  philo- 
sophic complacency,  won  after  much  effort.  Life  is  a 
terrible  tangle,  he  seems  to  say;  you  had  better  treat  it 
gaily,  or  otherwise  you  might  go  mad.  Sometimes,  again, 
being  himself  of  a  light  disposition,  he  insists  on  looking 
only  at  the  superficial  aspect  of  things.  Above  all,  the 
comedian  has  discovered  one  thing  which  is  of  enormous 
value  to  men  in  this  vale  of  tears — the  real  ethical  and  social 
value  of  humour,  as  a  preservative,  as  a  gift  of  sanity  to 
save  us  from  exaggeration.  And  therefore  the  comedian 
will  be  neither  optimist  nor  pessimist.  He  will  laugh 
equally  at  both  creeds.  The  arbitrary  character  of  comedy 
is  sufficiently  shown  in  the  various  aphorisms  that  are  used 
about  it.  For  instance,  Horace  Walpole's  "  life  is  a  comedy 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  127 

to  those  who  think,  a  tragedy  to  those  who  feel,"  or  the 
indubitably  sage  comment  that  if  your  comedian  were  to 
extend  his  play  beyond  the  recognised  number  of  acts  it 
would  be  the  commencement  of  a  tragedy.  But  he  is  in 
a  hurry  to  bring  down  his  curtain,  because  if  we  gazed  more 
intently  at  his  pictures  we  should  find  our  laughter  fading 
away.  Why  do  most  comedies  end  with  marriage  ?  The 
answer  comes  pat :  Because  the  sequel  is  too  depressing. 
And  is  not  Malvolio  a  really  tragic  character  when  Andrew 
Aguecheek  and  Maria  and  Toby  Belch  have  worked  their 
wicked  will  with  him,  and  consigned  him  to  a  dungeon, 
which  assuredly  he  does  not  deserve  ?  Is  not  Moliere'  s 
Alceste  equally  tragic  ?  Comedy  is,  as  it  were,  the  flower 
that  grows  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  which  we  gather  with 
a  fearful  joy;  it  is  the  butterfly  which  alights  on  the 
barricades,  the  bright  gleam  of  sunshine  irradiating  the 
dark  clouds  which  seem  to  menace  a  coming  storm — an 
artificial  piece  of  work  representing  an  arbitrary  and 
artificial  point  of  view.  It  is  at  his  own  peril  that  the 
comedian  says,  like  Puck,  "  Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals 
be  ! "  because  it  is  an  assumption  of  superiority  easy 
enough  for  an  elf,  difficult  for  any  of  us  who  may  all  be 
involved  in  the  same  condemnation. 


§3 

The  slow  growth  of  comedy,  the  actual  steps  in  its  history, 
serve  to  illustrate  its  artificial  character.  We  must  take 
note  of  some  of  the  changes  which  it  underwent  before  we 
can  understand  the  form  in  which  it  appears  in  Shakespeare, 
in  Moliere,  and  in  the  Restoration  dramatists.  At  its 
origin — as,  indeed,  one  would  naturally  suppose — comedy 
aimed  at  a  humorous  delineation  of  individuals.  In  a  city 
like  Athens,  given  over  to  a  good  deal  of  unrestrained  mirth, 
which  also  after  the  triumph  of  the  democratic  influences 
under  Pericles  and  Ephialtes  was  the  home  of  liberty  in 
its  widest  aspects,  Athenian  comedy  began  with  a  bold 
and  vigorous  satire  on  some  of  the  personages  who  were 
actually  directing  its  civic  development.  When  Aristo- 
phanes laughed  at  Cleon  and  the  Knights,  when  he  instituted 
a  mock  trial  between  the  two  tragedians  ^Eschylus  and 
Euripides,  when  he  turned  the  points  of  his  satirical  humour 
against  a  strange  contemporary  character  like  Socrates, 


128    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

it  is  as  though  some  modern  wag,  let  us  say  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw,  were  to  allow  himself  to  represent  in  laughable 
guise  Mr.  Asquith,  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  or  Lord  Haldane. 
Even  in  Athens  the  licence  of  the  dramatists  was  found 
intolerable,  partly  because  it  destroyed  all  respect  for  lead- 
ing personalities,  partly  because  it  was  so  hideously  unjust. 
No  one,  for  instance,  would  for  a  moment  imagine  that 
Aristophanes,  the  prince  of  these  early  comic  dramatists, 
gave  a  faithful  presentation  of  the  Athens  of  his  time.  He 
made  downright  mistakes,  where  his  knowledge  was  not 
equal  to  his  satiric  talent.  Thus,  for  instance,  he  presents 
before  us  a  Socrates  engaged  in  the  problems  of  physical 
philosophy — exactly  that  department  of  research  with 
which  Socrates  had  nothing  to  do.  Socrates  was  a  moral 
philosopher  above  all.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  earlier  form 
of  comedy,  which  was  aimed  at  individuals,  and  was,  for 
the  most  part,  burlesque  extravaganza,  very  speedily  gave 
way  to  other  kinds  of  comedy,  technically  called  Middle 
and  New  Comedy,  which  created  comic  types  to  take  the 
place  of  the  earlier  subjects  of  criticism.  You  will  find  in 
the  period  of  middle  and  new  comedy  most  of  those  types 
of  character  invented,  which  afterwards  play  a  great  part 
not  only  in  the  comedies  of  Rome,  but  also  in  the  comedies 
of  modern  Italy  and  Spain.  Standing  types,  such  as 
boastful  soldiers,  parasites,  courtesans,  revellers,  self-con- 
ceited cooks,  above  all  cunning  slaves,  these  were  the  things 
which  helped  to  amuse  the  Athenians,  specially  at  a  time 
when  the  clouds  were  gathering  fast  round  their  beloved  city, 
and  there  was  every  reason  why  their  mind  should  be  dis- 
tracted from  the  calamities  which  threatened  them  on  every 
side.  A  farce  called  Gigantomachia  was  actually  being 
played  when  the  news  arrived  in  Athens  of  the  destruction 
of  the  two  Sicilian  expeditions. 

And  so,  gradually,  a  comedy  of  manners  was  instituted, 
not  a  comedy  of  manners  as  it  was  understood  in  a  later  age, 
but  of  a  conventional  kind,  dealing  with  recognised  and 
conventional  figures.  Over  Roman  comedy  we  need  not 
linger,  because  it  was  purely  derivative.  It  is  true  that  a 
distinction  was  drawn  in  Roman  comedy  between  that 
which  treated  of  Greek  subjects  and  imitated  Greek 
originals,  and  that  which  professed  at  all  events  to  have  a 
native  character.  The  first  was  called  Palliata,  the  second 
Togata.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  both  were  dependent 
largely  on  Greek  originals,  and  the  spirit  they  had  intro- 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  129 

duced.  Plautus  and  Terence,  of  course,  were  the  dis- 
tinguished dramatists  of  the  time  who  devoted  their  talents 
to  comedy.  Of  Plautus  it  is  probably  true  to  say  that  he 
had  certain  originality  and  a  genuinely  national,  as  well 
as  popular,  element.  Terence,  a  finer  and  more  cultivated 
writer,  was  almost  entirely  indebted  to  Menander,  both  for 
plot  and  treatment. 

We  have  already  observed  that  most  of  the  types  com- 
monly used  by  writers  of  comedy  were  taken  over  in  modern 
times,  when  Italy,  above  all  other  countries,  was  inspired 
by  the  spirit  of  the  Renascence.  Perhaps  the  invention  of 
Harlequin  was  the  great  addition  made  by  early  Italian 
comedy.  But  it  is  to  be  noticed  of  Italian  comedy  as  a 
whole  that  its  most  popular  form  was  the  so-called 
"  Comedy  of  Masks,"  a  collection  of  recognised  characters, 
most  of  whom  wore  masks  in  order  to  indicate  the  class 
and  type  to  which  they  belonged.  So  artificial  and  yet 
so  popular  was  it,  that,  though  Goldoni  strove  vigorously 
for  originality  of  treatment  he  yet  was  unable  wholly  to 
withstand  the  influence  of  tradition  in  many  respects.  In 
Spain,  in  similar  fashion,  comedy  revolved  round  certain 
fixed  types  of  character.  The  soldier  was  the  great 
figure  in  the  dramas  of  Lope  de  Vega.  For  the  most  part 
these  comedies  dealt  not  with  common  life,  but  sometimes 
with  episodes  in  the  national  annals,  sometimes  with  con- 
temporary or  recent  events.  But  they  almost  always  had 
for  characters  the  upper  classes,  the  class  that  wore  cloak 
and  sword,  from  which  the  comedies  themselves — "  de  capa 
y  espada  "  —took  their  name. 

The  sum  total  of  our  observations,  so  far,  is  that  we  have 
a  comedy  of  intrigue,  a  comedy  of  fixed  characters,  to  a 
large  extent  traditional  and  conventional,  and  therefore 
also,  within  these  limits,  a  comedy  of  manners.  But  a 
comedy  of  character  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term,  a  piece 
which  is  to  reveal  the  intricacies  of  some  human  personage 
freshly  observed  and  studied,  so  that  we  recognise  him  as 
belonging  to  our  human  brotherhood,  for  that  we  look,  for 
the  most  part,  in  vain.  The  problem  which  is  left  for  the 
later  writers  is  how,  with  full  recognition  of  the  artifici- 
ality of  the  framework,  to  find  room  for  a  real  psychological 
study,  and  that  is  a  problem  which  was  not  perfectly  nor 
fully  solved  until  Moliere  came  on  the  scene. 


130    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 


§4 

Meanwhile,  Shakespeare  provides  us  with  an  extremely 
interesting  chapter.  On  the  whole,  it  must  be  said  that 
Shakespeare  as  a  writer  of  comedies  was  a  good  deal  inferior 
to  Shakespeare  as  the  author  of  tragedies.  That  is  to  say, 
the  things  which  matter  to  us  most  in  Shakespeare,  the 
things  by  which  he  lives  and  in  which  his  astonishing  range 
of  poetry,  philosophy,  and  psychology  is  best  illustrated, 
are  seen  in  pieces  like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Hamlet,  Macbeth, 
Othello,  and  Lear.  Nevertheless,  his  comedies  are  very 
interesting,  because  he  is  evidently  trying  to  elaborate  a 
formula  of  his  own,  and  to  achieve  this,  apparently,  without 
any  help  rendered  to  him  by  his  predecessors.  I  have 
already  suggested  that  the  form  of  tragedy  was  pretty  well 
fixed  by  Marlowe  and  others.  But  the  formula  of  comedy 
was  by  no  means  fixed.  And  thus  we  see  Shakespeare 
groping  after  different  forms,  essaying  tentative  experi- 
ments not  always  too  successful.1  He  first  of  all  seems  to 
have  thought  that  he  ought  to  invent  characters  by  the 
aid  of  his  own  fantasy  or  imagination,  and  to  invent  his 
stories  also,  a  matter  in  which  he  was  certainly  not  an 
adept.  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  for  instance,  supposed  to  be  the 
earliest  original  piece  of  Shakespeare,  is,  in  all  probability, 
a  story  which  Shakespeare  made  out  of  his  own  head.  His 
knowledge  of  human  nature  was  not  at  that  time  profound, 
nor  was  he  perhaps  altogether  inclined  to  rely  upon  it. 
And  the  result  is  a  kind  of  comic  opera,  superficial  and 
mechanical,  just  the  sort  of  thing  which  a  clever  young 
man  might  put  together,  including  certain  stage  types  like 
the  braggart  and  the  pedant  and  the  clown,  which  he  might 
have  taken  over  from  the  Italian  comedy.  Then  he  be- 
thinks himself  that  he  might  as  well  serve  Plautus  as 
Plautus  had  served  his  Greek  originals,  and  in  The  Comedy 
of  Errors  he  is  merely  borrowing  from  the  Mencechmi.  If 
the  result  attained  in  the  earlier  instance  was  polite  comic 
opera,  now  the  result  is  pure  farce.  Then  he  turns  to  some- 
thing which  is  more  or  less  a  comedy  of  intrigue,  in  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  not  a  very  plausible  piece  of  work, 
and  not  nearly  so  well  constructed  as,  for  instance,  The 

1  See  Prof.  Brander  Matthews'  Shakespeare  as  a  Playwright  (Long- 
mans), a  work  of  no  little  value  to  all  students  of  the  craftsmanship  of 
plays. 


THE   IDEA  OF   COMEDY  131 

Comedy  of  Errors.  Observe,  in  passing,  that  Shakespeare 
always  provides  parts  for  clowns,  and  the  clown  of  the 
Elizabethan  theatre  was  descended  almost  directly  from 
the  Vice  of  the  mediaeval  stage.  Perhaps,  as  has  been 
suggested,  there  were  two  low  comedians  in  Shakespeare's 
company,  for  whom  parts  had  to  be  found.  At  all  events, 
the  clowns  run  in  pairs  in  these  earlier  comedies — Costard 
and  Dull  in  Loves  Labour's  Lost,  the  two  Dromios  in  The 
Comedy  of  Errors,  and  Launce  and  Speed  in  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona.  I  need  not  mention  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  because  it  is  more  of  a  masque  than  a 
comedy. 

Now  what  is  the  great  advance  we  discover  when  from 
these  dramas  we  turn  to  the  romantic  comedies,  to  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  to  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  to  As 
You  Like  It,  and  to  Twelfth  Night  ?  First  of  all,  it  would 
seem  that  the  dramatist  has  made  the  discovery  that  he 
need  not  trouble  himself  to  invent  characters,  but  has  only 
got  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  numerous  characters  that 
existed  in  his  time.  Who  can  doubt  that  his  wonderful 
heroines — Portia,  Beatrice,  Rosalind,  Viola — were  studied 
on  the  spot,  taken  from  some  of  the  personages  who  moved 
in  the  court,  distinguished  ladies  who,  though  they  allowed 
themselves  a  certain  amount  of  freakishness,  and  even 
sometimes  buffoonery,  yet  preserved  the  essential  linea- 
ments of  gentlewomen?  Nor  was  there  any  greater 
necessity  to  invent  plots.  They  could  be  found  anywhere, 
especially  amongst  the  Italians  or  the  French.  The  rudi- 
ments might  be  taken  from  these  sources,  but  Shakespeare 
found  out  that  his  best  talents  could  be  exhibited  in  the 
fashion  in  which  he  reconstructed  these  dramas,  sometimes 
taking  two  sources  for  one  play  and  welding  them  together 
into  a  more  or  less  successful  unity.  Lastly,  Shakespeare, 
in  his  search  for  a  formula  for  comedy,  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  if  you  wanted  pleasurable  and  cultivated  romance 
it  had  better  be  exhibited  as  contrasted  with  a  background 
of  something  sinister  and  menacing,  involving  elements 
of  serious  tragic  interest.  This  is  the  point  which  is  most 
significant  in  Shakespeare's  romantic  comedies.  You  have 
a  pair  of  sparkling  lovers,  sometimes  two,  or  even  three 
pairs,  on  whom  Shakespeare  expends  all  his  pains,  and  then 
you  have  an  underplot  which  serves  to  show  up  by  force 
of  contrast  the  brilliance  of  these  happy  lovers.  They  are 
plucking  safety  and  happiness  out  of  circumstances  which 


132    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

in  themselves  look  dangerous.  They  win  in  the  end 
because,  otherwise,  the  play  would  not  be  comedy  at  all ; 
but  their  victory  is  all  the  more  conspicuous  and  significant 
because  at  one  time  they  appeared  to  be  threatened  with 
imminent  disaster.1 

And  now  we  see  the  value  of  that  definition  which  we 
have  borrowed  from  George  Meredith,  that  comedy  involves 
thoughtful  laughter.  We  smile  at  some  of  the  airs  and 
graces  which  these  gay,  romantic  personages  assume ;  we 
smile  at  the  wit  combats  between  Benedick  and  Beatrice ; 
we  smile  at  the  braggadocio  of  Bassanio,  who  thinks  it 
necessary  to  assure  Portia  that  he  is  a  gentleman.  We 
note  also  the  careless  assumption  of  superiority  of  Antonio 
in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  which,  because  he  is  over-confi- 
dent in  his  commercial  success,  puts  him  into  the  hands  of 
Shylock.  But  our  very  laughter  makes  us  serious  and 
thoughtful  when  we  discover  that  these  happy  creations 
of  the  dramatist's  fancy  are  playing  with  edged  tools, 
and  in  some  cases  are  almost  courting  disaster.  Behind 
Bassanio  and  Portia  rises  the  sinister  figure  of  Shylock; 
underneath  the  witty  badinage  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice 
lies  the  cruel  plot,  the  wanton  misbehaviour  of  Claudio, 
and  the  tragic  demand  which  the  heroine  makes  on  the  hero 
at  the  very  crisis  of  their  fate  :  "  Kill  Claudio  !  "  In  many 
of  the  older  philosophies  happiness  is  represented  as  being 
a  boon  of  the  gods,  for  which  we  ultimately  have  to  pay. 
The  gods  are  jealous ;  they  do  not  like  human  prosperity ; 
they,  apparently,  are  even  made  uneasy  by  human  light  - 
heartedness  and  laughter.  So,  too,  the  writer  of  comedy 
seems  to  remind  us  that  smiles  are  purchased  at  the  cost 
of  tears,  and  that  good  luck  and  prosperity  are  rare  and 
unusual  things,  for  which  some  recompense  or  ransom  will, 
ultimately,  be  exacted.  Shakespeare,  as  well  as  Beau- 
marchais,  seems  to  recommend  us  to  make  haste  to  laugh 
lest  we  should  begin  to  cry. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  especially  significant  in  this 
respect.  Shakespeare  has  now  got  his  formula,  such  as 
it  is,  that  comedy  involves  two,  or  it  may  be  more,  lovers, 
who  are  to  be  joined  together  in  the  end  in  complete  happi- 
ness. It  also  involves — because  true  love  never  did  run 
smooth — the  intrusion  of  some  elements  of  danger,  or,  at 
all  events,  difficulty,  threatening  at  times  to  interfere  with 
the  bright  elements,  but  kept  for  the  most  part  as  a  back- 

1  Cf.  Shakespeare  as  a  Playwright,  by  Prof.  Brander  Matthews,  chap.  viii. 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  133 

ground  in  the  form  of  a  sub-plot.  As  to  the  origin  of  these 
stories,  Shakespeare  at  this  period  of  his  development  will 
take  them  from  anywhere,  take  two  together,  interweave 
them,  despite  their  obvious  diversity  of  feeling,  and  make 
of  them  a  single  consistent  play.  For  the  dramatist  has 
discovered  wherein  his  chief  strength  lies.  It  is  in  so 
arranging  his  materials  drawn  from  different  sources  as  to 
exhibit  in  full  light  the  main  character,  or  characters,  in 
which  he  is  interested.  Invention,  which  was,  perhaps,  his 
earlier  method,  he  has  already  discovered  to  be  barren  in 
his  case.  He  does  not  possess  much  invention,  but  he  is  a 
rare  hand  at  working  up  materials  gained  elsewhere.  And 
he  has  discovered  that  the  business  of  comedy,  quite  as 
much  as  the  business  of  tragedy,  is  to  educe,  in  one  way  or 
another,  a  real  study  of  character,  albeit  that  for  the  pur- 
pose of  romance  the  characters  are  more  slightly  drawn. 
Still,  let  us  not  forget  that  in  this  earliest  of  his  romantic 
comedies,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Shakespeare  has  drawn 
a  complete  portrait  of  the  Jew — a  portrait  so  acute,  so 
thorough,  so  absolutely  unlike  anything  which  his  contem- 
poraries could  have  drawn,  that  the  Jew  threatens  to  usurp 
the  main  interests  of  the  play  and  turn  the  comedy  into  a 
tragedy. 

Let  us  linger  a  little  over  this  point,  for  it  is  a  curious 
illustration  of  the  way  in  which  a  maker  of  comedies  seems 
to  find  it  necessary  to  have  dark  clouds  round  the  horizon, 
in  order  that  we  may  better  appreciate  the  sunshine  that 
bathes  the  forefront  of  the  scene.  Let  us  ask  ourselves 
what  was  the  original  intention  of  Shakespeare.  Clearly 
he  wished  to  put  before  us  the  wooing  of  Bassanio  and 
Portia,  repeated  over  again,  as  is  his  wont,  in  the  wooing 
of  Gratiano  and  Nerissa  and  that  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 
Portia  is  the  conspicuous  figure,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  dramatist.  Portia  appears  early  in  the  play,  and  has 
the  fifth  act  almost  entirely  to  herself.  The  other  characters, 
as  it  were,  group  themselves  round  her  transcendent  charm ; 
they  form  a  court  retinue  at  Belmont,  where  she  reigns  as 
queen.  And  Belmont,  too,  is  absolutely  the  place  of 
romance.  It  is  like  those  Ruritanian  countries  with  which 
The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  made  us  acquainted,  a  country 
precisely  like  the  Forest  of  Arden,  or  Messina,  or  Illyria, 
or  wherever  Shakespeare  chose  to  place  the  scenes  of  his 
comedies.  They  have  no  geographical  boundaries.  They 
are,  if  we  like  to  phrase  it  so,  a  cloud-cuckooland  where 


134    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

marvels  happen.  We  see  this  in  many  ways,  especially  in  the 
fact  that  Shakespeare  is  at  no  pains  to  make  his  characters 
belong  to  the  locality  he  has  chosen.  Perhaps  he  is  more 
successful  with  Venice,  but  who,  in  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  thinks  for  a  moment  of  the  neighbourhood  of 
Athens?  Who  looks  upon  Bottom  as  a  Greek?  How 
could  Dogberry  and  Verges  possibly  appear  in  Sicily  ?  Or 
Sir  Toby  Belch,  or  Andrew  Aguecheek,  or  the  inimitable 
Maria  in  Illyria?  These  come  of  an  English  stock,  from 
Warwickshire  perhaps,  because  Shakespeare  is  no  pedant 
in  the  matter  of  his  scenery.  And  just  as  his  Romans  are 
Englishmen,  so,  too,  is  the  nurse  who  serves  as  go-between 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet  constructed  on  a  solidly  British  basis. 
The  essence  of  the  romantic  comedy  remains  with  the 
lovers  in  the  fairy  home  of  Belmont.  But  what  has 
happened  to  the  play  in  later  times  ?  Any  actress  is  proud 
to  assume  the  part  of  Portia,  but  in  a  modern  world  she 
knows  perfectly  well  that  her  interest  is  subordinate  to  that 
of  the  actor  who  plays  Shylock.  And  even  with  regard  to 
this  character  we  are  conscious  of  a  change  from  an  earlier 
conception.  Shakespeare,  undoubtedly,  meant  us  to  hate 
and  loathe  Shylock.  He  spares  no  opportunity  of  holding 
him  up  to  derision.  He  wants  us  to  laugh  at  him  as  well 
as  to  spurn  him,  for  in  this  matter  he  is  faithfully  reproduc- 
ing the  feelings  of  the  time,  which  regarded  the  Jew,  as 
money-lender  and  usurer,  with  absolute  abhorrence.  If 
we  want  a  proof,  we  need  only  turn  to  The  Jew  of  Malta,  by 
Christopher  Marlowe.  In  this  we  have  a  sinister  figure  of 
rapacity  and  evil,  a  man  designed  to  exhibit  some  of  the 
worst  vices  of  humanity,  and  called  Barabbas  as  though  to 
suggest  at  once  that  he  is  the  born  enemy  of  all  followers 
of  Christ.  Shakespeare  probably  started  with  the  same 
intention  as  Christopher  Marlowe,  but  what  is  the  curious 
result  ?  He  is  such  a  born  psychologist  that  he  must  needs 
do  justice  even  to  Shylock.  He  cannot  help  but  make 
him  human.  He  makes  us  feel  how  largely  his  malevolence 
was  due  to  the  most  un-Christian  conduct  of  the  Christians. 
He  gives  him  the  noble  speech  which  commences  "  Hath  not 
a  Jew  eyes  ?  "  involving  an  appeal  to  our  generous  feelings 
of  compassion  for  one  who  was  at  least  as  much  sinned 
against  as  sinning,  All  the  waves  of  calamity  beat  against 
this  solitary  figure.  His  servant  derides  him,  his  daughter 
runs  away  from  him,  he  is  robbed  of  the  jewels  of  which  he 
made  great  store.  Finally,  he  is  even  robbed  of  that 


THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY  135 

revenge  which,  according  to  his  interpretation  of  the  law, 
was  his  due.  And  when  he  leaves  the  scene  at  the  end  of 
the  trial,  bankrupt  in  hope  and  prospects,  forced  to  become 
a  Christian,  with  all  the  edifice  which  he  had  so  laboriously 
built  up  in  ruins  around  him,  he  becomes  a  figure  of  absolute 
tragedy,  so"  tragic,  indeed,  that  Shakespeare  is  in  haste  to 
tack  on  a  fifth  act  in  order  to  restore  the  balance  of  his  play. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  Shakespeare  ever  saw  a  Jew,  for 
they  were  not  allowed  to  live  in  England.  Most  likely, 
however,  this  law  was  evaded.  But  the  extraordinary 
thing  is  the  ability  with  which  the  dramatist  gets  hold  of 
the  essential  features  of  a  characteristic  Jew,  who  uses 
imagery  derived  from  the  Old  Testament,  insists  on  the 
absolute  letter  of  the  bond,  and  shows  throughout  that 
intense  pride  in  his  race  which  has  kept  the  Jew  a  thing 
apart  through  centuries  alike  of  prosperity  and  failure. 

Shakespeare  becomes  a  little  more  sure  in  his  procedure 
in  each  of  the  ensuing  romantic  comedies.  Clearly  he  was 
feeling  his  way  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  He  is  aware  that 
a  mere  love-story  is  not  sufficient,  not  even  when  the  lovers 
are  doubled  and  trebled.  Something  more  is  required  to 
stiffen  the  plot,  and  it  is  probably  with  some  such  idea 
in  his  head  that  Shakespeare  added  the  Antonio-Shylock 
story  to  the  Bassanio-Portia  story.  What  is  the  result? 
The  background  overpowers  the  foreground,  the  sinister 
figure  of  Shylock  dominates  the  whole  play,  and  what 
ought  to  be  sub-plot  comes  to  be  the  main  intrigue.  He  does 
not  make  quite  the  same  mistake  again.  He  still  believes 
in  the  necessity  of  some  mutterings  of  storm,  in  order  to 
give  due  contrast  to  the  sunlight,  but  he  will  see  to  it  that 
the  importance  of  the  serious  elements  does  not  overpower 
the  lighter  intrigue  of  his  lovers.  In  the  next,  therefore, 
of  his  romantic  comedies,  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  we 
still  find  much  the  same  formula  as  that  which  dictated  The 
Merchant  of  Venice — two  pairs  of  lovers  at  least,  and  behind 
them  a  dark  intrigue  which  threatens  to  mar  their  felicity. 
We  have  also  in  Much  Ado  the  same  kind  of  interaction  of 
two  plots  which  we  have  already  observed  in  The  Merchant 
of  Venice.  There  is  the  story  connected  with  Beatrice  and 
Benedick  and  the  story  connected  with  Hero  and  Cl audio. 
But  the  menacing  figures  of  evil,  Don  John  and  Borachio, 
are  not  really  very  formidable;  indeed,  such  villainy  as 
they  are  on  the  stage  to  express  is  more  than  a  little  arti- 
ficial, and  we  are  not  inclined  to  take  it  very  seriously. 


136    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Melodramatic  figures  like  Don  John  and  Borachio  are 
themselves  made  use  of  to  lead  up  to  the  more  purely  comic 
factors  of  the  play.  The  broad  comedians,  Dogberry  and 
Verges,  for  instance,  justify  their  existence,  because 
Borachio  gets  drunk,  is  apprehended,  and  gives  the  whole 
secret  away. 

Meanwhile,  more  than  ever  before,  Shakespeare  expends 
his  whole  force  over  the  two  characters  which  stand  well 
in  the  forefront  of  the  action — Beatrice  and  Benedick.  We 
are  to  suppose  that  they  Were,  more  or  less  unconsciously, 
attracted  to  one  another,  even  before  the  story  opens.  We 
observe  that  they  begin  to  bicker  as  soon  as  the  curtain 
goes  up,  and  inasmuch  as  this  bickering  is  sheer  word-play 
and  of  no  particular  use  to  the  action,  the  audience  at  once 
understands  that  these  gay  fencers  have  entered  the  lists 
more  than  once  before  and  know  to  a  nicety  the  length  of 
each  other's  weapons.  Beatrice  is  one  of  the  most  com- 
manding figures  which  Shakespeare  ever  drew.  She  is 
stronger  all  round  than  Portia,  stronger,  I  mean,  intellec- 
tually. She  has  not  the  winsome  grace  of  Viola,  nor  the 
quiet,  demure  fun  and  humour  of  Rosalind.  Into  Beatrice's 
composition  comes  something  of  the  nature  of  the  shrew. 
We  can  quite  imagine  that  if  she  had  not  been  given  free 
play  and  not  been  surrounded  by  all  the  tender  affection  of 
those  who  knew  her  and  loved  her,  she  might  have  become 
Katherine  the  Curst.  Whether  in  that  case  Benedick 
would  have  been  able  to  manage  her,  as  Petruchio  managed 
Katherine,  is  a  doubtful  matter.  Like  all  comedies,  the 
curtain  falls  on  the  happiness  of  the  lovers,  and  we  are 
expressly  debarred  from  wondering  what  happened  after- 
wards .  The  married  life  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice  we  should 
not  like  to  be  too  sure  of,  although  they  began  their  career 
so  gallantly.  Shakespeare  has  now,  however,  discovered 
that  he  is  at  his  best  when  he  is  amalgamating  different 
stories,  bringing  them  together  with  that  touch  of  supreme 
theatrical  genius  which  is  his  most  distinctive  characteristic. 
The  procedure  is  just  the  same  as  in  The  Merchant  of 
Venice.  How  are  the  two  widely  different  stories,  of  how 
Portia  was  wooed  and  won,  and  how  the  wiles  of  Shylock 
were  defeated,  to  be  amalgamated  in  one  plot  ?  How,  again, 
was  the  story  which  involved  the  fates  of  Hero  and  Claudio 
to  be  reconciled  and  made  one  with  the  flashing  wit  en- 
counters of  "  Dear  Lady  Disdain  "  and  her  much-derided 
and  much-loved  soldier?  In  each  play — The  Merchant  of 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  137 

Venice  and  Much  Ado — we  get  a  sort  of  critical  scene  in 
which  this   union   of  diverse   elements   is   consummated. 
In  The  Merchant  of  Venice  it  is  the  trial  scene,  in  Much  Ado 
it  is  the  church  scene.     Very  artfully  and  ingeniously  does 
Shakespeare  work  to  get  all  the  due  effect  out  of  his  two 
stories  in  Much  Ado.     As  we  all  know,  the  church  scene 
consists  of  two  superficially  contradictory  episodes.     The 
repudiation  of  Hero  by  Claudio  is  so  bitter  and  so  unpleasant 
that  only  a  Shakespeare  could  have  tacked  on  to  it  without 
fear  that  little  scene  between  Beatrice  and  Benedick.     In 
truth,  the  marriage  ceremony  is  the  device  which  is  to  bring 
the  two  lovers  together.     Hero  is  Beatrice's  friend,  Claudio 
is  Benedick's  friend.     Hero  has  been  disgraced  publicly; 
Claudio  has  shown  himself  contemptible  in  the  harshness 
with  which  he  has  pursued  his  vengeance.     And  out  of 
this  imbroglio  comes  the  strange  discovery  that  Beatrice 
is  in  love  with  Benedick,  and  that  Benedick  is  quite  pre- 
pared to  overthrow  all  his  old  friendships  for  the  sake  of 
Beatrice's  beautiful  eyes.     Left  together,  after  all  the  others 
have  gone  their  respective  ways  from  a  desecrated  ceremony, 
the  pair  of  lovers  have  their  brief,  poignant  talk,  and  the 
central   moment   for   which   Shakespeare   has   long   been 
preparing  is  reached  when  Beatrice  flashes  upon  Benedick 
her  two  words  :   "  Kill  Claudio  !  "     Both  she  and  he  knew 
how  much  she  was  asking.     It  was  a  supreme  test  of  the 
love  that  was  greater  than  mere  friendship.     Does  Benedick 
like  her  well  enough  to  renounce  all  his  old  associations  for 
her  sake?     And  the  answer  comes  at  once.     From  that 
moment  Benedick  is  Beatrice's  sworn  knight,  ready  to 
fulfil  her  lightest,  as  well  as  her  sternest,  behest. 

As  to  the  figures  which  surround  the  principal  actors  in 
his  play,  Shakespeare  is,  as  ordinarily  happens,  supremely 
careless.  He  does  not  even  try  to  be  convincing.  The 
plot  against  Hero  is  as  stupid  as  it  is  malicious.  It  is 
impossible  to  believe  in  Don  John's  absurd  villainy. 
Nobody  cares,  however,  because  Shakespeare  looks  to  it 
that  we  should  be  so  much  interested  in  the  main  incidents 
that  nothing  else  matters.  Fortunately,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  villains  give  an  opportunity  for  the  illustration  of  two 
characters  of  downright  comedy — Dogberry  and  Verges. 
What  business  they  had  to  be  in  Messina  is  another  question. 
They  are,  of  course,  purely  English,  drawn  from  some  of 
those  rustic  types  which  our  dramatist  had  before  his 
eyes  in  his  Warwickshire  home — incomparably  stupid  and 


138    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

incomparably  funny,  much  better  than  the  two  Gobbos  of 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  or  the  two  Dromios  of  The  Comedy 
of  Errors.  Nor  let  us  omit,  before  we  leave  this  play,  to 
notice  one  feature  which  connects  it  with  Shakespeare's 
later  work.  As  distinct  from  Portia  and  Bassanio,  who 
remain  at  the  end  of  the  play  pretty  well  what  they  were 
at  the  beginning,1  we  observe  a  distinct  development  of 
character  in  Benedick  and  Beatrice.  We  watch  them,  as 
it  were,  growing  before  our  eyes,  out  of  two  witty  com- 
batants becoming  two  ardent  and  affectionate  friends. 
Development  of  character  in  the  course  of  a  play  becomes  a 
keynote  of  Shakespeare's  later  work,  as  we  see  in  Hamlet 
and  Othello  and  Macbeth. 

When  Shakespeare,  at  a  later  period,  after  writing 
Hamlet  composed  such  pieces  as  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well, 
Measure  for  Measure,  and  Troilus  and  Cressida,  he  wrote 
so-called  comedies,  which  cannot  possibly  be  included  in 
any  real  definition  of  the  comedy  spirit.  No  one  pretends 
to  like  any  of  these  three  plays.  They  are  all  full  of  a  kind 
of  bitterness,  which  is  very  far  removed  from  the  usual 
Shakespearean  tolerance  and  broad-mindedness.  Troilus 
and  Cressida  is  the  strangest  piece  of  all.  Some  of  us  are 
inclined  to  say  that  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  travesties  the  early 
heroes  and  antique  forms  of  heroism  in  such  plays  as 
Ccesar  and  Cleopatra  and  Androcles  and  the  Lion.  But 
his  irreverence — if,  indeed,  that  be  the  right  term — is  as 
nothing  compared  with  what  Shakespeare  did  in  Troilus 
and  Cressida.  Perhaps,  because  he  was  angry  with  his 
so-called  rival  poet,  the  classical  Chapman,  he  set  himself 
to  work  to  belittle  all  the  old  Greek  heroes,  as  though  he 
were  running  a  tilt  against  classical  types.  Ulysses,  Aga- 
memnon, and  the  rest  cut  strange  figures  in  his  play.  And 
never  was  a  bitterer  thing  created  than  Thersites. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  romantic  comedy  is  only 
to  be  found  in  Shakespeare.  It  runs  through  all  the  history 
of  the  art,  and  our  modern  age  affords  us  many  illustrations. 
It  would  seem  that  most  dramatic  writers,  although  they 
try  in  a  truly  logical  spirit  to  exhibit  the  humour  of  the 
situations  they  describe  and  the  humour  of  the  characters 
which  they  are  illustrating,  are  tempted  now  and  again  to 
abandon  such  points  of  irony  and  satire  as  they  may  deem 
necessary  for  their  task  in  order  to  indulge  in  some  frankly 

1  I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  Bassanio  has  not  gradually  learnt  a  good 
many  lessons  about  "  gentlemanliness." 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  139 

ideal  and  imaginative  production  which  will  be  of  the 
essence  of  romance.  It  is  very  rare  indeed  that  you  get 
a  man  like  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  who,  disbelieving  in  romance, 
keeps  his  comedies  free  from  romantic  entanglement.  And 
yet  there  is  Captain  Brassbound's  Conversion  to  make  us 
pause.1  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  gives  us  a  romantic  comedy  in 
The  Princess  and  the  Butterfly,  and  Sir  James  Barrie  gives 
us  very  little  else.  How  otherwise  are  we  to  describe 
pieces  like  The  Admirable  Crichton,  Little  Mary,  What  Every 
Woman  Knows,  or  even  The  Adored  One,  except  as  romantic 
comedies,  in  which  the  circumstances  are  often  ideal  and 
the  characters  possess  ideal  excellences? 

It  is  more  important,  however,  for  us  to  determine  in 
brief  and  summary  fashion  why  Shakespeare's  conception 
of  comedy  falls  short  of  the  real  range  and  value  of  the 
comic  spirit.  Why  does  it  not  amount  to  comedy  as  we 
have  learnt  to  understand  it?  For  one  reason  above  all 
others.  Comedy  is,  and  must  be — at  least,  as  we  judge  from 
having  read  the  best  examples — a  humorous  criticism  of 
life.  There  is  no  lack  of  humour  in  Shakespeare,  but  there 
is  no  criticism  of  life.  You  cannot  have  a  criticism  of  life, 
and  therefore  no  criticism  of  contemporary  manners,  if 
you  insist  on  putting  your  chacacters  into  a  purely  ideal 
scene.  Belmont  is  unreal ;  so  is  Messina ;  so  also  is  Illyria ; 
and  most  of  all  ideal  is  the  Forest  of  Arden.  We  are  asked 
to  see  play-acting  under  conditions  which  do  not  obtain 
in  the  life  we  know.  There  is  a  study  of  character,  it  is 
true,  and  there  are  also  contrasts  of  character,  but  a  comedy 
of  character — character  as  educed  out  of  the  clash  of  real 
living  personalities  and  vital  incidents — cannot  be  found 
in  the  Shakespearean  comedies.  They  are  delightful 
exercises  of  wit  and  fancy,  and  they  please  us  perhaps  just 
because  they  are  not  altogether  real.  They  are  artificial  in 
the  sense  that  they  are  purely  fantastic,  whereas  characters 
of  true  comedy  are  artificial  because  they  are  abstracted 
as  types  from  the  actual  circumstances  of  the  real  world 
in  which  the  dramatist  moves  and  has  his  being.  The 
world  as  pictured  by  the  true  writer  of  comedy  is  the  real 
world,  though  heightened  and  adorned  by  his  comic  humour. 
The  characters  he  portrays  are  real  men  and  women, 
albeit  that  for  the  purposes  of  his  wit  their  lineaments 
are  exaggerated. 

1  And  shall  we  add  Pygmalion  ? 


THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY.— II 

COMEDY  OF  MANNERS — HIGH  COMEDY,  OR  COMEDY  OF 

CHARACTER 

§1 

A  WELL-MARKED  division  of  comedy  is  that  which  is 
generally  called  the  Comedy  of  Manners,  of  which  the  best 
representatives  for  our  purpose  are  the  Restoration 
dramatists.  We  need  only  be  concerned  with  two  of  these 
— Wycherley  and  Congreve.  A  predecessor  of  Wycher- 
ley's  —  Etherege  —  and  two  successors  —  Vanbrugh  and 
Farquhar — need  not  occupy  us,  because  there  can  be  no 
manner  of  doubt  that  the  two  principal  dramatists — the 
one  who  by  his  contemporaries  was  called  "  manly  Wycher- 
ley," and  the  other  "  friendly  Congreve,  unreproachful 
man  " — represented  the  culmination  of  the  period,  and  are 
therefore  best  fitted  for  our  study. 

Criticism  has  always  been  busy  over  these  Restoration 
dramatists.  The  one  thing  which  is  absolutely  certain  is 
that  they  wrote,  not  so  much  a  comedy  of  incidents,  or 
even  intrigue,  still  less  that  they  wrote  a  comedy  of  char- 
acter, but  that  with  conscious  art  they  devoted  themselves, 
and  with  no  small  success,  to  a  Comedy  of  Manners.  Per- 
haps it  is  unnecessary  to  say  what  this  involves.  It  means 
that  both  Wycherley  and  Congreve  were  occupied  with  the 
life  of  their  times,  as  a  pageant,  as  a  show,  a  panorama 
which  should  exhibit  the  various  foibles  and  fashions  of 
society,  which  should  give  a  picture,  including  peccadilloes, 
failings,  sins,  as  well  as  occasional  merits,  and  never  be 
concerned  with  any  deeper  implications  which  men  of  a 
different  order  of  intellect  might  find  interesting  in  the 
condition  of  society.  What  does  this  resolute  adherence 
to  a  Comedy  of  Manners  signify?  It  indicates,  clearly 
enough,  that  the  authors  did  not  intend  ostensibly  to  be 
critics.  They  may  be  betrayed  into  occasional  satire  and 
irony,  but  they  are  not  inspired  as  a  rule  by  a  lofty  moral 

140 


THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY  141 

indignation.  Indeed,  morality  as  such  was  not  their  job. 
It  is  quite  true  that  Wycherley  sometimes,  as  in  his  The 
Plain  Dealer,  seems  to  show  a  certain  moral  bitterness  of 
his  own,  as  though  he  almost  hated  the  characters  whom 
he  was  portraying.  But  that  is  by  no  means  the  general 
attitude.  As  a  rule,  if  we  take  any  of  the  plays  of  these 
men,  Love  in  a  Wood,  The  Country  Wife,  The  Gentleman 
Dancing-Master,  The  Old  Bachelor,  The  Double  Dealer, 
The  Way  of  the  World,  it  is  tolerably  clear  that  all  that 
the  authors  intend  to  do  is  to  present  the  gentlemen  and 
ladies  of  their  time  with  a  mirror  in  which  they  can  see 
some  of  their  worst  follies  reflected.  Lest  the  picture 
should  be  surcharged  with  black,  the  various  dramatis 
personce  are  shown  to  possess  a  witty  epigrammatic  style ; 
sometimes  it  is  affected,  or  false  wit,  sometimes  it  is  real 
wit.  But  anyway  there  is  a  superficial  brilliance,  the  sort 
of  brilliance  that  would  belong  to  a  highly  civilised  social 
state  which  cares  more  for  verbal  felicity  and  the  clever 
conduct  of  an  agreeable  conversation,  the  turn  of  a  phrase, 
the  ingenuity  of  a  repartee,  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
Thus  Mirabell  and  Mrs.  Millamant  in  The  Way  of  the  World 
are  the  ripe  flower  of  Restoration  comedy,  as  brilliant  in 
their  ways  as  Benedick  and  Beatrice  in  Shakespeare's 
comedy. 

We  have  said  that  criticism  has  been  very  much  con- 
cerned with  the  Restoration  dramatists.  The  most 
tremendous  condemnation  was  passed  by  Jeremy  Collier, 
an  extremely  formidable  attack,  which  probably  had  a 
lasting  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  English  stage. 
For  if  we  ask  why  Puritanism  took  up  arms  against  the 
drama,  the  answer  must  inevitably  be  that  the  Restoration 
dramatists  outraged  the  feelings  of  society,  or,  at  all  events, 
a  large  and  respectable  portion  of  society,  and  that  Jeremy 
Collier,  running  atilt  against  the  licence  and  indecency  of 
the  stage,  was  to  a  considerable  extent  justified  by  the 
sympathy  of  honest  men.  The  attitude  of  critical  con- 
demnation is  to  be  found  also  in  Steele,  Addison,  Macaulay, 
Thackeray,  and  even  Meredith.  The  defence  of  the 
Restoration  dramatists  was  undertaken  by  Leigh  Hunt, 
by  Charles  Lamb,  and  Hazlitt.  Naturally,  too,  the 
dramatists  themselves  had  something  to  say.  Wycherley 
wrote  an  answer  to  Jeremy  Collier,  and  Congreve  made 
some  observations  in  answer  to  his  critics  in  his  essay  on 
"  Humour."  In  quite  modern  days  you  will  find  an 


142    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

extremely  clever  and  ingenious  apologist  in  Mr.  John 
Palmer,  who  has  written  a  valuable  history  on  The  Comedy 
of  Manners* 

Inasmuch  as  Lamb  is  perhaps  the  best  of  the  apologists, 
it  is  as  well  to  remind  ourselves  of  what  he  actually  said. 
Here  is  a  significant  passage  : — 

"  I  confess  for  myself,"  says  Elia,  "  that  (with  no  great 
delinquencies  to  answer  for)  I  am  glad  for  a  season  to  take 
an  airing  beyond  the  diocese  of  the  strict  conscience,  not 
to  live  always  in  the  precincts  of  the  law  courts,  but,  now 
and  then,  for  a  dreamwhile  or  so,  to  imagine  a  world  with 
no  meddling  restrictions,  to  get  into  recesses  whither  the 
hunter  cannot  follow  me — 

....  Secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

I  come  back  to  my  cage  and  my  restraint  the  fresher  and 
more  healthy  for  it.  I  wear  my  shackles  more  contentedly 
for  having  respired  the  breath  of  an  imaginary  freedom. 
I  do  not  know  how  it  is  with  others,  but  I  feel  the  better 
always  for  the  perusal  of  one  of  Congreve's — nay,  why 
should  I  not  add  even  of  Wycherley's — comedies.  I  am 
the  gayer  at  least  for  it,  and  I  could  never  connect  those 
sports  of  a  witty  fancy  in  any  shape  with  any  result  to  be 
drawn  from  them  to  imitation  in  real  life.  They  are  a 
world  of  themselves,  almost  as  much  as  fairyland.  The 
Fainalls  and  the  Mirabells,  the  Dorimants  and  the  Lady 
Touchwoods,  in  their  own  sphere  do  not  offend  my  moral 
sense ;  in  fact,  they  do  not  appeal  to  it  at  all.  They  seem 
engaged  in  their  proper  element.  They  break  through  no 
laws  or  conscientious  restraints.  They  know  of  none. 
They  have  got  out  of  Christendom  into  the  land  of — what 
shall  I  call  it? — of  cuckoldry — the  Utopia  of  gallantry, 
where  pleasure  is  duty,  and  the  manners  perfect  freedom. 
.  .  .  We  are  not  to  judge  them  by  our  images.  No 
reverend  institutions  are  insulted  by  their  proceedings — 
for  they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace  of  families  is 
violated — for  no  family  ties  exist  among  them.  No 
purity  of  the  marriage-bed  is  stained — for  none  is  supposed 
to  have  a  being.  No  deep  affections  are  disquieted,  no 
holy  wedlock  bonds  snapped  asunder — for  affection's 

1  The  Comedy  of  Manners,  by  John  Palmer.     (G.  Bell  &  Son.) 


THE   IDEA   OF   COMEDY  143 

depth  and  wedded  faith  are  not  of  that  soil.  There  is 
neither  right  nor  wrong — gratitude  or  its  opposite — claim 
or  duty — paternity  or  sonship."  A  brilliant  defence, 
truly,  to  which  we  shall  return  presently. 

As  happens  in  most  controversies,  the  attacking  and  the 
defending  party  are  not  answering  one  another  so  much  as 
developing  their  own  respective  standpoints.  What  is  it 
that  Jeremy  Collier  assumes?  He  takes  it  for  granted 
that  the  office  of  comedy  is  to  do  men  good,  by  showing 
the  ruinous  character  of  vice  and  the  saving  grace  of  good- 
ness. Oddly  enough,  Wycherley  accepted  this  standpoint. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  maintain  that  a  pure  woman 
could  keep  his  comedies  side  by  side  with  her  Bible.  But 
if  one  begins  with  the  principle  that  the  office  of  the 
dramatist  is  practically  that  of  the  moralist,  then  there 
can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  all  these  men — Etherege, 
Wycherley,  Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquhar — lament- 
ably fail  in  their  task.  If  we  talk  like  ordinary  men  of  the 
world,  and  use  words  in  their  conventional  sense,  all  these 
comedies,  without  exception,  are  full  of  indecencies, 
especially,  perhaps,  The  Country  Wife  of  Wycherley. 
The  men  are  rakes,  and  successful  rakes;  they  boast  of 
their  conquests ;  the  women  are  willing  accomplices,  they 
exist  to  be  wooed  and  won.  But,  of  course,  the  real 
question  is  whether  a  dramatist,  as  such,  ought  ever  to  be 
a  moralist,  or,  to  bring  the  matter  to  a  more  definite  point, 
whether  a  writer  of  a  Comedy  of  Manners  is  ever  concerned, 
or  ever  should  be  concerned,  with  the  moral  implications 
involved  in  the  action  of  his  characters.  Clearly,  a  great 
painter  has  every  right  to  paint  a  distorted  and  ugly  face, 
if  it  happens  to  be  true,  and  a  literary  man  may  describe 
a  scene  full  of  ugly  things,  or  depict  a  period  in  which  the 
standard  of  living  is  deplorably  low.  And  in  precisely  the 
same  fashion  the  writer  of  a  comedy  may  show  his  per- 
sonages guided  by  disreputable  motives  if  he  is  sincerely 
trying  to  give  us  a  veracious  tableau  of  the  times.  There 
is  one  quality,  however,  that  we  require,  and  that  is  an 
absolute  sincerity.  When  a  man  draws  what  he  sees 
around  him  with  sincerity  of  this  kind,  we  may  dislike  the 
result,  we  may  call  him  all  manner  of  injurious  names  for 
being  interested  in  wrong  things,  but  he  may  quite  well 
remain  an  artist,  because  the  moral  point  of  view  is  never 
obtrusively  before  his  eyes.  In  the  long  run,  too,  it  will  be 
found  that  sincerity  of  purpose  will  not  be  prejudicial  to 


144    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  higher  interests  of  morality.  But  the  man  is  not 
consciously  working  towards  a  moral  end.  What  is  his 
aim?  It  is  to  express  the  values  of  life  and  character, 
values  not  in  an  ethical,  but  in  an  artistic  sense.  If  he  is 
sincere  he  brings  out  the  inner  meaning  of  it  all,  and  in  this 
roundabout  fashion  he  can  actually  be  said  to  be  working 
in  accordance  with  the  great  moral  laws  which  condition 
the  universe.  If  we  apply  these  considerations  to  the  case 
before  us,  we  shall  probably  have  to  allow  that  some  of 
these  Restoration  dramatists  were  sincere,  and  are  therefore 
to  this  extent  justified,  and  that  others  were  not.  It  is 
generally  conceded  that  at  all  events  Vanbrugh  and 
Farquhar  were  not  sincere  students,  but  purely  imitative, 
but  that  Wycherley  and  Congreve  were  sincere.  The 
latter  tried  to  draw  what  they  saw  before  their  eyes.  We 
may  hate  the  result — perhaps  they  hated  it  also.  Certainly 
in  The  Plain  Dealer  it  looks  very  much  as  if  Wycherley  did. 
But  they  accepted  the  task  which  they  had  set  before 
their  eyes,  and  wrote  comedies  of  manners. 

There  are  two  considerations,  however,  which  make  one 
pause  before  attempting  to  whitewash  these  dramatists. 
In  the  first  place,  they  one  and  all  affected  the  extremely 
disingenuous  pose  of  being  fine  gentlemen  first,  and  only 
as  a  sort  of  amusement  writing  the  plays  by  which  they 
lived.  When  Voltaire  came  over  to  visit  Congreve  he  was 
naturally  indignant  when  he  discovered  that  Congreve 
wished  to  be  regarded  as  a  gentleman  first  and  as  a  dramatist 
afterwards.  "  If  I  had  come  merely  to  visit  you  as  a 
gentleman,  I  would  not  have  taken  the  trouble  :  I  came 
to  see  you  as  an  artist."  There  is,  assuredly,  something 
insincere  in  the  pose  of  men  who  profess  to  belittle  the 
work  to  which  they  are  devoting  their  talents.  If  they 
write  comedies  with  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks,  we  cannot 
give  them  the  respect  due  to  those  who  plenarily  acknow- 
ledge the  high  office  of  literature. 

The  other  consideration  is,  that  we  never  discover  in  the 
work  of  these  men  that  most  gracious  quality  which  so 
often  appears  in  Moliere,  comedy  with  thoroughly  healthy 
laughter.  It  is  not  laughter  that  comes  from  these 
comedies — not  laughter  in  Bergson's  sense  as  society's 
vindication  of  itself  against  follies  and  artificialities — it  is 
a  snigger  or  a  sneer,  a  polished  irony  not  always  very  honest 
or  clean.  There  are  times  when  we  would  wish  them  to 
be  less  polished  and  more  vulgar,  if  only  they  would 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  145 

consent  to    have    a    downright   masculine   laugh   at   the 
hypocrisies  of  their  period. 


§2 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  only  two  real  antagonists  on 
this  question  are  Charles  Lamb  and  Jeremy  Collier,  and 
because  the  point  raised  is  one  which  is  interesting  and 
important  with  regard  to  art  in  general,  and  to  the  art  of 
comedy  in  particular,  it  is  worth  examining  it  a  little  more 
in  detail.  I  have  already  quoted  a  paragraph  from 
Charles  Lamb's  essay  on  "  The  Artificial  Comedy  of  the 
Last  Century."  His  argument  is  that  it  is  often  a  positive 
relief  to  turn  away  from  the  dull  things  of  life  to  an  arti- 
ficial realm,  where  current  rules  and  laws  do  not  obtain, 
and  where  men  and  women  can  do  whatever  they  like 
without  fear  of  the  magistrate  or  the  police  constable. 
Now,  it  is  this  sort  of  pleasure  which  men  like  Wycherley 
and  Congreve  can  give.  We  do  not  make  the  mistake  of 
taking  them  too  seriously.  We  assume  that  they  are 
speaking  of  an  artificial  condition  of  society,  and  therefore 
their  worst  characters — Mr.  Horner,  for  instance,  in 
Wycherley's  Country  Wife — need  not  be  regarded  as  of 
flesh  and  blood,  but  more  or  less  as  fairies.  I  may  remark, 
however,  in  passing  that  the  idea  of  turning  so  extremely 
material  a  person  as  Mr.  Horner  into  a  fairy  certainly 
appeals  to  our  risible  faculties.  Indeed,  this  is  the  weak 
point  in  the  whole  of  Lamb's  position.  If  the  men  and 
women  who  live  and  move  in  the  comedies  of  Wycherley 
and  Congreve  are  to  be  regarded  as  fairies,  we  may  dismiss 
them  from  the  things  which  matter,  even  though  we  may 
still  have  to  object  to  their  conduct  as  fairies.  They  do 
not  matter,  I  say.  Unsubstantial  denizens  of  an  un- 
substantial world,  they  have  to  appear  in  a  very  different 
kind  of  framework  from  that  provided  by  comedy.  What 
was  the  criticism  that  I  ventured  to  offer  on  the  Shake- 
spearean comedy?  It  was  that,  being  throughout  of  a 
romantic  texture,  it  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the 
actual  life  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  produced.  And  in 
the  same  way  Mr.  Horner  and  his  worthy  associates  are, 
according  to  Lamb,  to  be  excused  because  they,  too,  do 
not  belong  to  the  world  as  we  know  it.  In  other  words, 
Lamb's  apology  delivers  them  from  censure  just  in  pro- 
portion as  it  removes  them  from  the  actual  condition  of 
L 


146    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

things.  But  it  is  surely  obvious  that  if  Wycherley  and 
Congreve  were  not  writing  about  the  men  and  women  of 
their  time,  with  whose  characters  and  principles  of  life 
they  were  intimately  acquainted,  the  whole  value  of  their 
comedies,  as  comedies  of  manners,  disappears.  Either 
Mr.  Homer  was  modelled  on  a  real  prototype,  or  he  was 
not.  If  he  was,  he  was  an  indecent  libertine.  If  he  was 
not,  he  may  take  to  himself  all  the  credit  of  being  a  denizen 
of  a  fairy  world,  but  we  are  still  entitled  to  add  that  he 
lives  in  a  fairy  atmosphere  which  it  is  a  little  difficult  to 
breathe. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  other  figure  in  the  controversy. 
Jeremy  Collier  produced,  in  1698,  his  Short  View  of  the 
Profaneness  and  Immorality  of  the  English  Stage,  "  a  book 
which  threw  the  whole  literary  world  into  commotion," 
as  Macaulay  remarks.  In  1698  the  world  was  different 
from  what  it  had  been  under  Charles  II.  The  excesses 
of  the  Restoration  period  are  to  be  excused  mainly  on  the 
ground  of  an  inevitable  reaction  against  a  one-sided  and 
extreme  austerity.  The  nation  had,  however,  now  re- 
covered from  the  effects  of  Puritan  rigour.  It  had  had 
recent  experience  of  the  profaneness  and  debauchery 
which  accompanied  the  return  of  the  Stuarts.  The  pro- 
fligacy of  the  Revolution  still  remained,  and  maintained 
its  hold  in  certain  parts  of  society  where  men  of  wit 
and  fashion  congregated.  Above  all,  the  theatres  were 
its  chief  stronghold.  The  most  brilliant  of  Congreve' s 
comedies,  The  Way  of  the  World,  was  not  produced  till 
1700.  Collier's  notorious  Tract  was  published  two  years 
before. 

The  author  was  a  remarkable  man,  of  great  independence 
and  originality,  not  in  any  sense  a  bigot  as  we  understand 
the  term.  He  had  an  extensive  knowledge  of  books ;  he 
is  even  said  to  have  possessed  grace  and  vivacity  in  con- 
versation, and  he  undoubtedly  wielded  a  most  powerful 
pen.  He  was  a  Tory  of  the  Tories,  and  so  far  as  his 
religious  opinions  were  concerned,  he  belonged  to  that 
section  of  the  ecclesiastical  world  which  Macaulay  describes 
as  "  furthest  from  Geneva  and  nearest  to  Rome."  He 
was  constantly  in  trouble  with  the  authorities.  Two 
men  who  were  intimates  of  his — Sir  John  Friend  and  Sir 
William  Parkins — were  tried  and  convicted  of  high  treason 
for  planning  the  murder  of  King  William.  Collier  did 
not  hesitate  to  administer  spiritual  consolation  to  them, 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  147 

accompanied  them  to  Tyburn,  and  just  before  the  execution 
laid  his  hands  on  their  heads  and  solemnly  absolved  them. 
It  is  easy  to  conceive  the  indescribable  scandal  which  so 
overt  an  act  inevitably  created.  Indeed,  so  furiously  did 
the  storm  rage  that  Collier,  described  as  a  rebel  against 
his  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  found  it  advisable  to  withdraw 
from  the  kingdom,  and  was  outlawed.  Incidents  of  this 
kind  are  sufficient  to  prove  that  the  author  of  the  famous 
Tract  was  a  man  of  great  courage  as  well  as  independence 
of  mind.  Indeed,  if  we  remember  that  his  political 
sympathies  were  with  the  Stuarts,  and  that  the  Stuart 
King  had  thrown  his  aegis  over  profligacy  in  the  court, 
while  decency  was  associated  rather  with  Conventicles  and 
Dissenters,  it  will  be  understood  that  in  publishing  his 
book,  girding  at  the  indecency  of  the  stage,  Collier  was 
criticising  that  cavalier  party  to  which  by  sympathy  he 
belonged. 

The  Tract  is  a  spirited  attack  on  the  whole  of  the  litera- 
ture of  the  time,  and  more  especially  on  that  part  of  it 
which  was  occupied  with  the  stage.  The  author  may  or 
may  not  have  been  a  Jacobite,  but  in  this  work  at  all  events 
he  only  remembers  that  he  is  a  moralist,  a  Christian,  and 
a  citizen  in  what  ought  to  be  a  well-ordered  commonwealth. 
Not  only  does  he  deliver  his  trenchant  blows  at  Wycherley, 
Congreve,  and  Vanbrugh,  but  he  strikes  without  fear  at 
the  most  towering  figure  of  all — the  great  Dryden  himself, 
who,  I  may  mention  in  passing,  never  replied  to  his  attack, 
although  every  one  in  England  expected  him  to  do  so. 
Of  course,  Jeremy  Collier's  book  has  many  faults.  It 
is  much  too  violent ;  it  tries  to  prove  too  much ;  it  takes 
for  granted  that  the  object  of  a  comedy  is  to  improve 
public  morals.  In  his  anxiety  to  prove  his  victims  the 
guiltiest  of  offenders,  he  brings  into  his  charge  against 
them  things  quite  trivial,  and,  indeed,  quite  innocent. 
On  this  point  Macaulay  makes  some  undoubtedly  just 
remarks.  "  He  blames  Congreve  for  using  the  words 
'  martyr  '  and  '  inspiration  '  in  a  light  sense,  just  as  if 
an  Archbishop  might  not  quite  innocently  say  that  a 
subject  was  '  inspired  '  by  claret,  or  that  an  Alderman  was 
4  a  martyr  '  to  the  gout.  Sometimes,  again,  Collier  does 
not  sufficiently  distinguish  between  the  dramatist  and  the 
persons  of  the  drama.  Thus  he  blames  Vanbrugh  for 
putting  into  Lord  Foppington's  mouth  some  contemptuous 
expression  respecting  the  Church  Service,  though  it  is 


148    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

obvious  that  Vanbrugh  could  not  better  express  reverence 
than  by  making  Lord  Foppington  express  contempt." 
In  short,  the  Tract  had  many  of  the  demerits  which  usually 
attach  to  violently  polemical  literature.  I  have  already 
suggested  that  its  general  standpoint  completely  mistook 
the  nature  and  purposes  of  art.  Nevertheless,  it  is  quite 
clear  that  the  honours  of  the  fray,  at  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  and  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth,  rested 
with  the  ecclesiastic,  and  not  with  the  dramatist.  Collier 
had  a  pretty  wit  of  his  own.  Congreve  had  remarked  of 
his  play,  The  Old  Bachelor,  that  it  was  a  trifle,  to  which  he 
attached  no  value.  "  I  wrote  it,"  he  said,  "  to  amuse 
myself  in  a  slow  recovery  from  a  fit  of  sickness."  Collier's 
repartee  was  brilliant.  "  What  his  disease  was,"  he 
replied,  "  I  am  not  to  inquire,  but  it  must  be  a  very  ill  one 
to  be  worse  than  the  remedy."  Probably  in  the  long  run 
the  real,  perhaps  the  only,  defence  of  the  post-Restoration 
drama  was  that  it  was  adapted  to  the  age  and  period  in 
which  it  was  produced.  The  case  stands  as  it  does  with 
those  Sophists  of  Greece,  of  whom  Plato  remarked  that  it 
was  not  they  who  were  to  blame,  but  the  society  which 
produced  them.  In  the  same  fashion  we  might  say  that 
censure  should  attach,  not  to  the  comic  dramatists,  but  to 
the  public  of  the  day  which  applauded  their  efforts. 


§3 

1  turn  to  Moli^re.1  I  have  said  more  than  once  that 
Moli£re  represents  the  ideal  writer  of  comedies,  and  that 
perhaps  there  is  no  one — with  the  possible  exception  of 
Menander  in  Greek  comedy — who  so  perfectly  realises  the 
conditions  of  his  task.  There  are  many  considerations  to 
be  borne  in  mind  in  arriving  at  this  conclusion.  Let  us 
try  to  summarise  some  of  them.  In  the  first  place,  Moliere, 
like  Shakespeare,  is  a  workman  who  knows  his  tools.  He 
studies  his  actors ;  he  studies  his  audiences ;  he  studies  the 
kind  of  theatre  in  which  he  is  to  represent  his  plays,  and 
lastly,  being  himself  an  actor  and  an  extremely  good  one, 
he  has  a  thorough  inside  and  outside  experience  of  what  he 
has  to  do.  We  never  welcome  the  idea  of  a  dramatist 
who  composes  characters  suitable  for  particular  actors  and 
actresses,  because  we  suppose  that  this  is  a  limitation  of 

1  In  this  matter  I  obviously  follow  a  logical  rather  than  a  chronological 
order. 


THE   IDEA   OF  COMEDY  149 

the  free  and  independent  workmanship  of  the  author. 
Yet  it  is  abundantly  clear  that  most  dramatists  not  only 
have  studied  their  actors,  but  are  bound  to  do  so.  We 
are  pretty  certain  that  Shakespeare  did.  He  had  Burbage 
before  his  eyes  when  he  composed  some  of  his  heroic  parts. 
The  comic  men  of  his  company  also  were  studied,  as  was 
remarked  in  the  preceding  essay.  And  if  Hamlet,  besides 
being  "  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form,"  is 
described  as  "  fat  and  scant  of  breath,"  the  suggestion 
has  been  made  that  the  line  was  written  in  because  Burbage 
was  beginning  to  put  on  flesh. 

Now  when  we  get  to  Moliere  we  move  on  much  more 
certain  ground,  because  we  know  a  good  deal  more  about 
the  company  of  Moliere  than  we  do  about  the  actors  who 
surrounded  Shakespeare.1  First  of  all,  we  know  that 
Moliere  wrote  parts  for  his  wife,  Armande  Bejart,  who  was 
a  most  competent  actress,  and  who  appeared  as  Elmire, 
Celimene,  Henriette,  and  other  characters.  So,  too,  her 
elder  sister  Madeleine  Bejart,  had  parts  provided  for  her 
to  suit  her  capacity,  such  as  Dorine  in  Tartuffe.  Argan, 
in  the  Malade  Imaginaire,  has  a  cough  :  Moliere  wrote 
this  part  for  himself  after  the  time  when  his  cough  became 
troublesome.  La  Fleche,  in  the  Avare,  is  lame :  the 
character  was  written  for  Moliere's  brother-in-law,  who  was 
also  lame.  Tartuffe,  we  know,  has  abundance  of  skin  on 
his  bones,  and  the  character  was  composed  for  Du  Croisy, 
who  was  plump  and  well-favoured.  Doubtless,  many 
other  indications  could  be  found  of  the  way  in  which  the 
dramatist  availed  himself  of  the  existing  resources  of  his 
company. 

Then,  too,  Moliere  was,  in  a  real  sense,  the  first  of  the 
moderns,  primarily  because  he  does  not  write  for  a  mediaeval 
theatre,  as  Shakespeare  does.  In  Shakespeare's  time,  as 
we  are  aware,  the  roof  only  covered  part  of  the  theatre, 
the  lighting  was  most  indifferent,  there  was  practically  no 
scenery,  and  the  apron  stage  ran  down  amongst  the 
audience.  But  Moliere's  transformed  tennis-court  was 
roofed  and  lighted,  furnished  with  scenery,  and,  indeed, 
so  far  as  it  went,  belonged  much  more  to  the  theatre  of 
a  modern  time.  This  is  one  reason  why  the  dramatist 
began  to  work  out  his  ideas  in  comedy.  He  could  anticipate 
a  stage-form  practically  identical  with  that  used  by  such 

1  See  Moliere,  his  Life  and  his  Works,  by  Brander  Matthews.    (Long- 
mans. ) 


150    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

late  dramatists  as  Ibsen,  for  instance.  Either  he  fell 
back  on  the  old  Italian  plan  of  having  an  outdoor  scene, 
with  houses  on  either  side  to  serve  as  a  meeting-place  for 
the  characters,  or  else  he  had  an  interior  in  which,  without 
change,  he  could  make  his  story  unroll  itself  in  the  fortunes 
and  adventures  of  a  single  family.  Then,  too,  it  is  quite 
clear  that  Moliere  studied  his  audiences  with  uncommon 
care.  If  he  had  to  please  the  King  and  his  courtiers  he 
knew  he  could  devise  the  kind  of  thing — half  farce  and  half 
ballet — which  would  suit  the  occasion.  But  with  regard 
to  his  own  public  we  get  in  him  a  tolerably  plain  example 
of  how  a  man  of  genius  can  not  only  educate  himself  in 
the  performance  of  his  dramatic  tasks,  but  can  also  educate 
his  audience. 

What,  roughly,  is  the  history  of  the  Moliere  comedy? 
Let  us  remember  that  he  was  only  fifty-one  when  he  died, 
and  that  all  except  two  of  his  thirty  plays  were  written  in 
the  last  fourteen  years  of  his  life.  From  1659  to  1673  he 
was  very  fertile,  in  some  years  bringing  out  as  many  as 
three  pieces;  and  he  not  only  was  stage-manager  and 
general  director  of  his  company,  but  generally  took  a  part 
himself.  During  these  fourteen  years  he  gave  examples 
of  most  of  the  different  kinds  of  comedy  to  which  we  have 
already  alluded.  He  began  with  a  form  entirely  borrowed 
from  the  Italians,  the  so-called  comedy  of  masks,  with 
stock  characters,  such  as  the  "  wily  valet,"  the  "  prig," 
the,  "  boastful  soldier,"  the  "  braggart,"  and  the  like.1 
L'Etourdi  is  entirely  on  the  lines  of  a  comedy  of  masks. 
Moliere  was  quite  well  aware  that  the  average  audience 
for  whom  he  had  to  cater  liked  its  farces  in  this  form.  It 
was  fond  of  seeing  amusing  situations,  whether  probable 
or  not  did  not  very  much  matter,  and  the  personages  who 
had  to  be  subordinated  to  these  situations  were  for  the 
most  part  artificial  characters — both  artificial  and  unreal. 
We  get  to  a  comedy  of  manners  in  the  Precieuses  Ridicules. 
Then  in  the  Ecole  des  Femmes,  which  is  a  comedy  of  manners, 
we  get  also  a  comedy  of  intrigue.  In  Le  Manage  Force, 
which  was  enacted  some  time  ago  by  Mr.  Granville 
Barker's  company  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  Moliere 
wrote  what  ought  to  be  described  as  a  comedy  ballet,  and 
which  still  preserves  its  laughter-provoking  qualities, 

1  It  is  interesting  to  discover  from  Dr.  Cornford's  Origin  of  Attic  Comedy 
(Arnold)  that  these  stock  characters  serve  as  a  foundation  also  for  the 
Aristophanic  comedy. 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  151 

quite  apart  from  its  association  with  the  ballets  in  which 
the  King  and  the  Court  delighted.  And  then,  leaving  out 
many  intermediate  steps,  we  arrive  at  comedy  of  character 
in  such  pieces  as  the  Misanthrope,  the  Avare,  Tartuffe,  and 
the  Femmes  Savantes,  models  of  high  comedy,  plays  which, 
in  the  early  period  of  his  career,  he  would  hardly  have 
dared  to  produce,  because  they  asked  more  of  the  audience 
than  the  audience  was  generally  prepared  to  grant.  The 
audience  desired  to  be  amused,  and  Moliere  was  bound  to 
amuse  them,  and,  indeed,  it  is  wonderful  to  observe  how 
he  makes  us  laugh  at  characters  and  situations  which, 
directly  we  begin  to  analyse  them,  reveal  elements  almost 
of  tragedy.  Tartuffe  remains  a  comic  character,  even 
though  we  have  found  occasion  to  loathe  his  hypocrisy 
and  pretensions.  So,  too,  we  laugh  at  the  miser  Harpagon 
almost  as  much  as  we  laugh  at  M.  Jourdain  in  the  Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme.  But  characters  of  this  kind,  whether  they 
represent  miser  or  hypocrite,  misanthrope  or  learned  prig, 
or  pretentious  doctor,  have  now,  as  Moliere  is  able  to  draw 
them,  achieved  a  really  solid  character  for  themselves,  and 
the  play  exists  for  them  and  for  the  exhibition  of  their 
characteristics.  The  incidents  of  the  play  are  made  to 
reveal  and  bring  out  the  special  traits  of  the  individuals 
involved.  We  obtain,  therefore,  something  more  than  a 
comedy  of  intrigue  or  a  comedy  of  manners,  and  we  have 
left  the  comedy  of  masks  a  long  way  behind  us.  We 
have  got  to  high  comedy,  a  rare  and  special  product,  a 
comedy  of  character,  of  which  Moliere  alone  is  able  to 
present  us  with  the  highest  examples.  It  is  a  very  delicate 
fabric  which  he  has  been  able  to  construct.  A  little  less 
analysis  of  character  and  we  should  get  down  to  the 
comedy  of  manners ;  a  little  more  tension  in  the  conduct 
of  the  plot  and  we  should  leave  the  range  of  comedy 
altogether  and  get  into  something  which  could  hardly  be 
distinguished  from  tragedy.  Moliere  knew  how  to  make 
painful  situations  amusing,  and  how  to  draw  characters 
we  instinctively  dislike  and  repudiate  in  such  a  fashion 
that  they  seem  to  draw  out  of  us  a  large  amount  of  interest 
and,  perhaps,  even  a  certain  amount  of  sympathy. 

Now  Aristotle  saw,  clearly  enough,  with  only  the  Greek 
plays  before  him  on  which  to  base  his  conclusion,  that  in 
the  case  of  a  tragedy  the  story  is  at  least  as  important  as, 
if  not  more  important  than,  the  characters.  It  can  never 
be  the  same  with  comedy.  With  comedy  the  story  is 


152    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

relatively  unimportant ;  everything  turns  on  the  delinea- 
tion of  the  men  and  women  whose  mutual  relations  deter- 
mine the  plot.  Probably  this  is  due  to  a  certain  extent 
to  the  fact  that  comedy  originated  with  a  certain  fixed  set 
of  characters,  as  we  find  in  the  later  Greek  comedy,  and 
early  Italian  and  Spanish  comedy.  If  you  examine  many 
of  the  plays  of  Moli^re,  you  will  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  story  is  of  a  somewhat  thin  and  unsubstantial  char- 
acter. In  the  comedies  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve  the 
stories  are  wholly  unimportant;  indeed,  it  is  difficult  to 
see  with  regard  to  some  of  them  what  the  story  is.  So, 
again,  if  we  take  a  comedy  like  that  of  George  Dandin, 
we  end  precisely  at  the  point  where  we  began.  So  also  in 
the  Misanthrope,  when  we  have  been  introduced  to  the 
chief  characters  of  the  comedy,  and  studied  their  peculiar 
characters,  the  comedy  ends.  And  it  is  precisely  here 
that  we  become  aware,  I  will  not  say  of  one  of  the  chief 
defects,  but  of  the  chief  danger  of  high  comedy.  The 
principal  characters  tend  to  become  typical  rather  than 
individual.  Harpagon,  for  instance,  is  the  embodiment  of 
avarice  itself.  He  is  also — because  he  happens  to  be 
drawn  by  an  accomplished  artist — an  individual  whom  we 
can  recognise.  Nevertheless,  his  main  object  in  the  play 
is  to  be  a  type,  just  as  Tartuffe  has  become  absolutely 
typical  of  all  hypocrites.  Moliere,  though  generally  careful 
to  show  us  the  social  conditions  in  the  midst  of  which  his 
plays  run  their  course — differing  in  this  respect  from  Shake- 
speare, who  never  gives  us  a  hint  of  existing  social  con- 
ditions except  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor — tells  us 
very  little  of  the  principal  characters  of  his  best  comedies. 
We  ask,  for  instance,  where  Alceste  came  from,  or  in  what 
social  rank  he  is  to  be  found.  We  may  make  a  guess,  but 
the  dramatist  does  not  help  us  much.  Orgon  has  practic- 
ally no  name  at  all,  only  a  sort  of  character-label.  Tartuffe 
again — we  should  have  liked  to  have  known  what  his 
early  experiences  have  been,  where  he  came  from,  had  he 
been  unmasked  before,  or  had  he  been  invariably  successful 
in  his  intrigues?  But  Moliere  does  not  help  us.  These 
great  figures  of  his  stand  in  a  sort  of  isolation,  typical  of 
certain  vices  and  failings,  existing  for  their  own  sake  as 
part  of  the  machinery  wherewith  your  true  comedian  will 
mark  out  for  you  the  kinds  of  temperament  or  personality 
to  accept  or  to  avoid.  But  it  is,  of  course,  only  of  these 
main  characters  that  this  criticism  is  true.  Moliere  has 


THE   IDEA  OF  COMEDY  153 

known  well  enough  how  to  surround  his  most  typical  by 
his  most  individual  personages.  And  as  he  was  always 
learning  by  experience,  he  could  go  back — if  expediency 
so  suggested — from  his  highest  achievement  to  a  piece  like 
Les  Fourberies  de  Scapin,  which  is  a  mere  farce.  So,  too, 
when  he  discovered  that  the  Misanthrope  was  unpopular 
because  it  hardly  had  a  story  to  tell,  he  was  careful  to 
supply  the  Femmes  Savantes  with  a  much  more  regular 
plot,  so  as  to  win  the  interest  of  his  public.  And  if  we  need 
any  other  example  of  the  way  in  which  Moliere  was  con- 
stantly educating  himself,  let  it  be  discovered  in  his 
abandonment  of  tragedy — or  rather  heroic  comedy — 
when  Don  Garde  failed  to  win  the  popular  approval.  The 
people  loved  Moliere  as  a  humorist,  as  a  comedian  of  rich 
and  versatile  gifts,  and  though  once  and  again  he  tried  to 
prove  to  them  that  he  was  capable  of  other  work,  they 
refused  to  accept  it.  For  the  public  of  Paris  Moliere  was 
a  comic  actor,  and  nothing  else.  But  he  also  happened 
to  be  a  genius  who  represented  some  of  the  highest  achieve- 
ments of  French  literature.  Such  a  truth  probably  never 
occurred  to  his  admirers.  Nor  need  we  be  surprised  at 
this.  Shakespeare,  too,  was  known  as  a  popular  play- 
wright, as  a  good  business  man,  and  as  an  indifferent 
actor.  His  contemporaries  would  have  opened  their  eyes 
in  wonder  if  they  had  been  told  that  he  was  also  a  con- 
summate poet,  and  the  greatest  figure  in  English  letters. 

§4 

Masterpieces,  evidently,  are  not  only  difficult  to  compose, 
but  are  very  difficult  to  get  published.  Moliere  wrote 
three  masterpieces  at  least,  of  which  the  most  significant 
is  the  well-known  Tartuffe.  The  first  three  acts  of  Tartuffe 
belong  to  the  date  1664.  They  at  once  fell  under  the 
interdict  of  the  authorities,  and  it  was  not  till  1669,  five 
years  afterwards,  that  the  performance  of  the  complete 
play  in  five  acts  was  finally  authorised.  There  was  an 
abundance  of  reasons  for  this  long  delay.  But,  meanwhile, 
let  us  see  in  what  respect  the  play  itself  represented  a 
certain  novelty,  whereby  Moliere  established  his  position 
as  the  greatest  comic  dramatist  of  his  time,  and,  perhaps, 
of  all  time.  Tartuffe  is  a  masterpiece  because  it  represents 
the  culmination  of  the  development  of  comedy  as  the  more 
or  less  light  and  laughable  treatment  of  themes  serious  in 


154    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

themselves.  Comedy — as  Meredith  taught  us — creates 
thoughtful  laughter,  the  laughter  that  does  not  end  in  and 
with  itself,  but  suggests  trains  of  thought  in  the  mind  and 
leads  to  certain  conclusions.  How  to  treat  grave  subjects 
and  devise  complex  characters,  and  yet  retain  the  comic 
framework,  is  Moliere's  own  secret,  and  it  has  been  shared 
by  very  few  among  his  fellow  dramatists.  In  his  case 
it  was  the  ripe  fruit  of  years  of  work.  Abundance  of 
laughter  could  be  extracted  from  the  valets,  who  were  the 
heritage  to  him  of  the  Latin  stage ;  abundant  laughter  also 
from  the  serving  maids,  the  clever  and  sharp-tongued 
soubrettes,  who  were  in  especial  Moliere's  invention; 
abundant  laughter  also  could  be  created  by  the  traditional 
types  of  character — the  fool,  the  braggart,  the  stupid 
lover,  the  empty-headed  pedagogue.  But  now,  slowly, 
dawns  before  Moliere's  mind  a  larger  task.  The  play 
ought  to  arise  from  the  clash  of  character  with  character. 
It  ought  to  follow  naturally  the  relations  exhibited 
between  the  different  personages.  The  characters  them- 
selves need  not  be  of  a  conventional  type ;  though  typical, 
they  must  be  real  and  human.  They  must  be  such  char- 
acters as  we  are  able  to  meet  every  day,  easily  recognised, 
well  marked  in  their  characteristics,  and  rounded  figures, 
so  to  speak,  complex  beings  so  essentially  human  that 
we  can  laugh  at  and  with  them,  and  even  forgive  them 
where  they  go  wrong.  Moreover — and,  perhaps,  that  is 
no  slight  advance — the  scene  must  be  laid  within  a  single 
family,  whether  of  bourgeois  or  of  aristocrats,  and  the 
plot  must  be  unrolled  before  our  eyes  within  the  four 
corners  of  an  ordinary  sitting-room.  No  longer  are  we 
to  have  a  public  square,  flanked  by  the  houses  in  which 
the  principal  personages  live.  It  must  be  just  an  ordinary 
interior,  the  living-room  of  a  family.  This  is  what  Moliere 
did  in  his  Tartuffe,  and  in  his  Misanthrope,  and  in  the 
Femmes  Savantes,  three  high  specimens  of  his  dramatic 
skill.  And  thereby  he  created  the  ideal  type  of  comedy, 
the  comedy,  as  we  say,  of  character,  the  comedy  which 
trembles  on  the  edge  of  tragedy  and  pathos,  like  all  the 
real  things  of  life  where  tears  follow  hard  on  laughter. 
To  us,  because  we  live  after  the  event,  it  may  seem 
an  easy  achievement.  Perhaps  Menander  may  have  done 
something  of  the  same  kind  in  the  later  Attic  comedy. 
Indeed,  without  any  manner  of  doubt,  so  far  as  we  can 
discover  from  recently  unearthed  evidences  of  his  art, 


THE  IDEA  OF  COMEDY  155 

this  is  what  Menander  did.  But  for  us  in  a  modern  world 
it  is  the  great  achievement  of  Moliere,  marking  a  notable 
advance  on  Shakespeare's  comedies  and  illustrating  the 
evolution  of  comedy  from  the  grotesquely  humorous  or  the 
fantastically  humorous  to  the  humour  of  real  characters, 
the  humour  of  life  itself.  And  if  we  want  to  see  why  it 
was  a  great  discovery,  we  need  only  observe  how  the  later 
comedians  follow  in  Moliere' s  footsteps.  Here  precisely 
is  the  comedy  which  Sheridan  wrote  in  The  School  for 
Scandal ;  here  is  the  comedy  of  Dumas  and  Augier.  Here, 
too,  is  the  comedy  of  Ibsen. 

With  regard  to  the  first  of  the  trio  which  I  have  men- 
tioned, Tartuffe,  we  can  easily  understand  why  its  appear- 
ance should  so  long  have  been  delayed.  The  story  of 
Tartuffe  is  well  known.  There  is  an  ordinary  bourgeois 
family,  consisting  of  Orgon,  the  father,  who  has  married 
a  second  wife,  Elmire — a  charming  character — and  who 
has  a  daughter,  Mariane,  affianced  to  Valere.  We  have 
besides  Orgon' s  old  mother,  Madame  Pernelle — a  rather 
difficult  person  to  get  on  with — and  a  very  outspoken  critic 
in  the  shape  of  Dorine,  half  a  maid  and  half  a  companion, 
with  a  very  established  position  in  the  family,  for  she  speaks 
out  her  opinion  on  most  subjects  before  she  is  even  asked. 
Into  this  family  is  introduced  a  character,  Tartuffe,  an 
ostentatiously  religious  man  who  exercises  a  wonderful 
influence  on  Orgon,  and  whose  appearance  is  carefully 
prepared  for  in  the  first  two  acts  before  he  is  shown  us  in 
the  third.  Tartuffe  is  an  unctuously  religious  hypocrite, 
who,  though  he  never  unburdens  himself  in  that  kind  of 
soliloquy  which  Shakespeare  employed  in  explaining  to 
us  lago,  is  abundantly  revealed  in  his  true  colours  by  the 
skilful  management  of  the  dramatist.  Tartuffe  gains  a 
complete  ascendancy.  Orgon  is  all  for  giving  him  his 
daughter,  Mariane,  in  marriage ;  he  even  makes  him  a  deed 
of  gift  of  his  possessions.  Tartuffe,  however,  does  not  want 
the  daughter;  he  is  attracted  by  the  young  wife,  Elmire, 
and  it  is  only  when  Orgon  discovers  Tartuffe  making  love 
to  his  wife  that  he  realises  what  a  hypocrite  he  has  nursed 
in  the  bosom  of  the  family.  Then,  when  he  is  exposed, 
Tartuffe  becomes  truculent,  makes  much  of  the  deed  of 
gift,  and  claims  Orgon's  house.  It  requires  the  actual 
intervention  of  the  King  to  put  matters  right,  and  finally 
to  send  Tartuffe  about  his  business.  That  is  the  story,  and 
though  Moliere  makes  us  laugh  at  everybody,  laugh  at 


156    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Orgon,  at  Madame  Pernelle,  at  Dorine,  and  above  all  at 
Tartuffe  himself,  it  is  easy  to  see  with  what  serious  elements 
he  is  dealing.  Moliere  himself,  of  course,  like  most  drama- 
tists, like  Shakespeare  above  all,  disliked  Puritans  and 
loathed  hypocrisy  in  all  its  forms.  But  the  court  was 
very  religious,  and  the  ecclesiastics  of  the  time  could  not 
be  expected  to  welcome  such  an  exposure  of  religious 
affectation.  Moreover,  there  is  always  one  difficulty  in 
putting  a  religious  hypocrite  on  the  stage.  You  have  to 
put  in  his  mouth  expressions  and  sentiments  which  are 
precisely  those  used  by  the  really  devout.  In  his  case  they 
are  not  sincere,  but  the  expressions  are  the  same,  and  natur- 
ally give  offence  when  attributed  to  worthless  personages. 
Moliere  was  not  specially  a  religious  man ;  he  was  trained 
in  the  schools  of  Rabelais  and  Montaigne.  He  was  not  anti- 
religious,  but  he  probably  did  not  care  for  professions  of 
piety,  and  in  Tartuffe  he  revenged  himself  on  those  eccle- 
siastical critics,  as  well  as  dramatic  critics,  who  had  found 
fault  with  his  Ecole  des  Femmes.  The  King  seems  always 
to  have  been  on  his  side,  but  he  had  to  proceed  with 
caution,  and  thus  it  came  about  that  for  five  years  Moliere' s 
masterpiece  was  banned.  He  had  created,  however,  a 
character  destined  to  be  immortal.  Tartuffe  lives  as  the 
very  emblem  and  type  of  the  sanctimonious,  and  whenever 
or  wherever  the  play  is  performed  its  essential  humanity  is 
recognised.  Being  something  real,  and  independent  of 
period  or  race,  Tartuffe  is  an  actor-proof  part,  like  Hamlet. 
About  the  time  when  discussions  took  place  as  to  the 
possibility  of  the  play  being  performed,  the  Italian 
comedians  brought  out  a  piece  called  Scaramouche  Ermite. 
According  to  a  well-known  story,  the  King  is  said  to  have 
asked  Conde  why  those  who  were  so  scandalised  by 
Moliere' s  play  did  not  object  to  this  Scaramouche.  Conde 
answered  :  "  The  reason  is  that  Scaramouche  shows  up 
religion  and  Heaven,  as  to  which  these  gentlemen  care 
nothing.  Moliere's  comedy  shows  them  up,  and  this  they 
will  not  permit." 

Perhaps  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  very  much  about  the 
other  two  great  creations  of  Moliere,  although  each  has 
its  own  special  points  of  interest.  The  Misanthrope  is  in 
many  ways  a  rather  puzzling  play.  The  main  character, 
Alceste,  whom  Moliere  insists  upon  our  calling  a  mis- 
anthrope— though  we  might  very  possibly  have  chosen 
another  title — is  not  especially  a  comic  character.  Indeed, 


THE   IDEA   OF  COMEDY  157 

he   has   certain   elements  which  make  him  ultra-serious. 
Moliere  devised  him  for  his  own  acting,  just  as  he  portrayed 
Celimene  for  the   acting  of  his   wife,   and,   inasmuch  as 
Parisian  audiences  would  not  stand  Moliere  in  anything 
but  comic  parts,  it  is  quite  obvious  that  we  are  intended  to 
laugh,   even  though  we   have  to  laugh  thoughtfully,   at 
Alceste's    extravagance.     There    was    always    a   spice    of 
tragedy  in  Moliere,  a  certain  strain  of  melancholy,  despite 
his  mirth-provoking  qualities.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  how- 
ever, the  figure  of  a  man  who  loudly  protests  against  the 
fashionable  hypocrisies  of  the  day ;   who,  although  he  is  in 
love  with  Celimene,  is  continually  upbraiding  her  for  her 
frivolity  and  worldly  character,  reminds  us  of  figures  like 
Dr.  Stockmann  in  Ibsen's  The  Enemy  of  the  People,  or  even 
Timon    of    Athens,    as    Shakespeare    drew    him — figures 
cynical,  morose,  unfriendly,   or  perhaps  we  should  say, 
uncompromising  men,  who  refuse  to  accept  the  world's 
legitimate  as  well  as  illegitimate  compromises.     Observe 
that  the  somewhat  morose  traits  of  Alceste  are  preserved 
up  to  the  last.     He  proposes  to  Celimene,  after  one  of  the 
usual  disputes,  that  she  should  prove  the  reality  of  her 
repentance  by  going  to  live  with  him  on  a  desert  island. 
This,  naturally,  the  high-spirited  lady  refuses  to  do,  and 
the  play  ends  with  the  amiable  efforts  of  some  of  the  hero's 
friends  to  try  to  bring  about  a  better  reconciliation.     There 
are  two  other  remarks  which  have  to  be  made  about  The 
Misanthrope.     One  is  that,   as   compared  with   Tartuffe, 
Moliere  is  dealing  with  the  higher  levels  of  society  in  the 
later  play,  and  with  the  bourgeois  society  in  the  earlier. 
Part  of  his  object  is  to  expose  the  hollow  insincerities  of 
the  fashionable  world  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.     And  so 
even  his  most  delightful  heroine,  Celimene,  is  shown  us  as 
being  infected,  as  it  were,  with  some  of  the  evil  humours  of 
society,  so  that  she  will  sacrifice  her  best  friends  for  a 
witticism,  and  give  a  satirical  version  of  their  characters 
in  just  the  same  way  as  Lady  Teazle  did  later,  in  Sheridan's 
comedy,  The  School  for  Scandal.     The  other  point  to  remark 
is  that  there  is  no  real  story  in  The  Misanthrope.     There 
is  very  little  action,  and  we  remain  at  the  end  pretty  well 
in  the  same  position  as  we  were  when  we  began.     This  is 
probably  the  reason  why   The  Misanthrope — though  all 
the  more  intelligent  critics  hailed  it  as  a  masterpiece — did 
not    enjoy    much    success    in    Parisian    representations. 
Tartuffe  was  a  solidly  built  comedy,  with  a  story  which 


158    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

advanced  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  The  Misanthrope 
consists  of  a  series  of  episodes,  with  practically  no  story. 
If  Parisian  audiences  found  the  play  dull,  there  is  really 
something  to  be  said  for  them.  For  once  Moliere  allowed 
his  psychological  instincts  and  his  philosophy  to  over- 
power his  intuitions  as  a  dramatist.  Dramas  can  contain 
any  amount  of  philosophy  and  psychology,  but  they  must 
be  subordinate  to  the  story  which  is  to  be  unfolded  before 
our  eyes.  Let  us  once  be  interested  in  the  action  and  we 
can  get  all  the  more  interest  out  of  the  characters,  because 
they  are  deeply  devised.  But  the  reverse  of  this  proposi- 
tion is  not  true.  If  we  can  imagine  Hamlet  without  the 
plot  of  Hamlet,  we  should  get  much  the  same  thing  as 
Moliere  put  before  his  spectators  in  The  Misanthrope. 
Here  we  are  at  the  very  secret  of  all  drama,  which  is  one 
of  the  most  democratic  of  the  arts,  and  can  never  be  the 
choice  possession  of  a  coterie,  however  distinguished.  In 
Tartuffe  Moliere  wrapped  his  psychology  in  a  powerful 
story;  therefore,  at  once  he  gained  a  popular  appeal. 
In  Alceste  he  left  his  philosophy,  such  as  it  was,  naked  and 
unadorned,  and  therefore  failed  to  please  the  average 
playgoer.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  add  that  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  Moliere  himself  in  the  character  of  Alceste,  and 
perhaps  something,  too,  of  his  relations  with  his  wife, 
Armande,  in  the  controversies  between  Alceste  and  Celi- 
mene.  Moliere,  too,  was  a  jealous  man.  Moliere  felt 
bitterly  the  fact  that  his  wife  was  a  worldly  woman.  But 
we  must  not  press  a  consideration  of  this  kind  too  far. 
Various  suggestions  the  dramatist  can  take  from  his  own 
experience  or  that  of  others,  but  he  is,  first  and  foremost, 
a  dramatist,  and  he  must  not  be  identified  with  any  of 
his  creations. 

I  have  left  myself  but  little  space  to  discuss  that  which 
some  competent  critics  have  held  to  be  absolutely  the  best 
of  Moliere's  comedies,  Les  Femmes  Savantes.  The  theme 
is,  perhaps,  not  so  important  as  either  that  which  meets 
us  in  Tartuffe  or  that  which  underlies  the  character  of 
The  Misanthrope.  But  the  Femmes  Savantes  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly well-made  play,  and  as  the  incidents  are  brisk, 
the  characters  interesting,  and  the  dialogue  lively  and 
animated,  we  get  a  result  of  comedy  at  its  best — humour 
slightly  exaggerated,  with  a  sound  and  serious  lesson  at 
its  core.  Moliere  had  touched  upon  the  question  of  learned 
ladies  before  in  his  Prtcieuses  Ridicules.  Their  affectation 


THE   IDEA   OF  COMEDY  159 

and  their  absurd  efforts  to  purify  the  language  had  passed 
under  his  satiric  pen.  But  the  class  of  learned  ladies  did 
not  tend  to  diminish  in  Moliere's  time,  or  rather  the  point 
which  struck  the  dramatist  was  not  that  a  learned  lady, 
as  such,  was  a  drawback  to  the  State,  but  that  all  pre- 
tenders, whether  male  or  female,  were  equally  obnoxious. 
At  the  back  of  Moliere's  mind,  and  indeed  tolerably  patent 
in  the  general  construction  of  the  play,  is  undoubtedly 
the  idea  that  women  who  set  up  to  be  learned  are  destructive 
of  the  integrity  of  that  family  life  of  which  Moliere  was  so 
keen  an  advocate.  Not  that  his  play  is  in  any  sense 
intended  to  be  didactic,  but  the  general  form  and  con- 
struction and  the  arrangement  of  the  characters  suggest 
on  which  side  Moliere's  own  sympathies  are  to  be  found. 
And  I  believe  that  women,  as  a  rule,  especially  the  so-called 
feminists,  do  not  appreciate  Moliere.  Perhaps  they  have 
never  forgiven  him  his  Precieuses  Ridicules  and  his 
Femmes  Savantes. 

Les  Femmes  Savantes  is,  in  truth,  an  excellent  comedy,  a 
comedy  in  which  the  plot  is  determined  by  the  characters 
of  the  play,  and  in  which  we  move  throughout  on  an 
ascending  scale  of  interest.  There  is  one  curious  feature 
about  it  that,  although  in  this,  almost  more  than  in  his 
other  plays,  Moliere  shows  his  complete  independence  of 
other  stories  and  plots — for  in  his  highest  comedies  he  is 
always  most  original — we  yet  discover  one  character  who 
is,  without  any  doubt  whatsoever,  a  copy  from  a  living 
contemporary.  Trissotin  was  certainly  a  caricature  of  the 
Abbe  Cotin.  Cotin  had  had  a  serious  quarrel  with  Menage, 
in  much  the  same  way  as  in  the  play  Trissotin  has  a  quarrel 
with  Vadius.  It  is  very  unlike  Moliere  thus  to  vent  his 
spleen  against  a  personage  who  was  well  known  in  Paris, 
whatever  provocation  he  may  have  received.  Perhaps  he 
did  it  at  the  instigation  of  his  friend  Boileau.  Perhaps 
what  offended  him  in  the  Abbe  Cotin  was  an  absurd  literary 
affectation  which  had  no  real  roots  in  knowledge.  To  us 
at  the  present  day  it  does  not  matter  who  the  original  of 
Moliere's  portrait  was,  because  Trissotin  is  the  type  of 
pedantic  prig  familiar  in  all  ages,  and  certainly  not  without 
example  in  our  own  country  and  century.  Happily,  there 
is  no  reason  to  think  that  Moliere  copied  living  originals 
for  his  women.  I  believe  it  has  been  suggested  that 
Philaminte  and  Belise  are  intended  as  caricatures  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne*  and  Madame  de  Lafayette.  There  is 


160    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

no  justification  for  such  a  view,  for  the  two  women  to  whom 
we  have  referred  were  really  cultured  and  educated.  But 
what  cannot  be  too  often  insisted  on  is  that,  though  it 
may  be  of  some  interest  to  know  how  Moliere's  play  stands 
related  to  the  personages  and  events  of  his  tune,  all  these 
adventitious  sources  of  interest  fall  away  for  us  when  we 
recognise  that  in  Les  Femmes  Savantes,  as  well  as  in 
Tartuffe  and  The  Misanthrope,  Moliere  has  given  us  the 
highest  type  of  comedy,  cultured,  humorous,  agreeable, 
witty,  full  of  good  sense,  full  of  worldly  wisdom ;  above  all, 
a  comedy  of  character,  involving  personalities  as  truly 
living  for  us  as  they  were  for  Frenchmen  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA 


THE  modern  English  stage  has  developed  mainly  along  the 
lines  of  realism.  At  the  present  moment  it  would  be  safe 
to  say  that  the  drama  which  is  most  alive,  the  drama  which 
means  most,  both  as  an  intellectual  and  as  an  artistic 
product,  is  that  which  is  classed  as  Realistic.  It  is,  rela- 
tively speaking,  a  modern  tendency.  At  all  events,  during 
the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  a  more  artificial, 
fantastic,  and  romantic  species  of  drama  prevailed,  which 
might,  for  purposes  of  comparison,  be  put  under  the  head 
of  dramatic  idealism. 

Let  me  attempt  first  of  all  to  define  these  terms,  Idealism 
and  Realism.  A  dramatist,  we  will  suppose,  is  asking 
himself  how  he  shall  treat  human  characters,  and  he  dis- 
covers that  there  are  at  least  three  possible  ways.  He 
can  say,  in  the  first  place,  "I  will  paint  human  beings  as 
I  think  they  ought  to  be."  In  other  words,  he  is  applying, 
however  unconsciously,  a  sort  of  ethical  test  to  the  men 
and  women  whose  actions  he  is  about  to  describe.  He 
believes  that  it  is  his  duty  (in  order,  we  will  say,  to  help 
ordinary  suffering  and  erring  humanity)  to  paint  certain 
ideals  of  conduct  and  behaviour,  good  and  bad  alike — 
heroes  that  are  ideal  heroes,  villains  that  are  ideal  villains, 
heroines  that  are  virtuous  and  in  distress,  comic  men  who, 
despite  a  lamentable  tendency  to  idiotic  witticisms,  have 
a  heart  of  gold — and  all  the  other  heterogeneous  items  in 
a  romantic  conception  of  existence. 

We  can  imagine,  however,  a  dramatist  with  a  very 
different  ideal  before  him.  He  says,  "  My  business  as  an 
artist  is  to  paint  men  as  I  think  they  reaTTy'are,"  not  very 
good,  not  very  bad,  average  creatures,  sometimes  with 
good  intentions,  often  with  bad  performance,  meaning  well 
and  doing  ill,  struggling  with  various  besetting  tempta- 
tions and  struggling  also  perhaps  with  a  heritage  derived 
M  161 


162    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

from  earlier  generations — above  all,  never  heroes  and  never 
heroines,  nor  even  thorough-going  villains,  not  beautifully 
white  nor  preternaturally  black,  but  (as  one  might  phrase 
it)  of  a  piebald  variety.  This  species  of  dramatist  works 
from  a  scientific  point  of  view.  His  mode  of  procedure, 
and  also -such  inspiration  as  he  possesses,  is  mainly  experi- 
mental, based  on  what  he  has  discovered — or  thinks  he 
has  discovered — about  humanity  and  its  place  in  the 
world.  If  the  first  class  of  dramatist  I  am  trying  to 
describe  is  radiantly  optimistic,  the  second  is  generally 
preternaturally  sad,  inclined  to  despair,  teaching  us  that 
this  world  is  not  altogether  a  comfortable  place,  and  that 
human  beings  are  not  especially  agreeable  to  live  with. 

It  is  conceivable,  however,  that  apart  from  these  two 
classes  of  dramatists  there  yet  is  room  for  a  third,  a  man 
who  is  neither  a  preacher  nor  a  pessimist ;  not  inspired  with 
a  moral  idea  nor  yet  inspired  with  a  scientific  idea,  but 
a  sheer  artist,  inspired  by  a  purely  artistic  idea.  He  is 
aware  that  all  art  is  an  imaginative  exercise,  and  that 
however  he  describes  his  dramatis  personce  he  can  only 
do  it  from  a  personal  point  of  view.  He  is  not  quite  sure 
that,  however  scientific  may  be  his  "procedure,  he  can 
ever  paint  men  and  women  precisely  as  they  are — he  can 
only  paint  them  as  they  appear  to  his  aesthetic  perceptions. 
He  does  not  desire  to  draw  any  moral.  He  desires,  it  is 
true,  to  be  guided  by  experience ;  but  he  does  not  give  us 
the  dry  bones  of  scientific  data.  Being  an  artist  he  uses 
his  selective  capacity  both  as  to  his  incidents  and  his 
characters.  The  latter  he  often  makes  typical  rather  than 
individual;  but  they  will  represent  the  inner  verity  of 
man,  and  not  the  mere  external  appearance.  He  has 
made  the  discovery,  in  other  words,  that  you  do  not  get 
rid  of  romance  by  calling  yourself  an  Experimentalist  or 
a  Realist.  He  knows  that  men  turn  to  art  just  because 
they  do  not  want  to  live  perpetually  in  a  sombre,  and  actual, 
world.  The  world  of  art  is  something  other  than  the  world 
of  reality,  and  as  a  dramatic  artist  he  must  make  allowance 
for  this  fact. 

Now  here  are  three  different  types  of  dramatist,  and, 
fortunately  for  our  purpose,  we  can  give  them  names. 
When  drama,  as  we  understand  the  term,  began  with  the 
Greeks,  that  extraordinary  race  developed  most  of  the  types 
which  are  discoverable  in  the  work  of  later  men.  The 
earliest  dramatist  was  ^Eschylus,  a  profoundly  moral  and 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  168 

didactic  playwright  who  painted  men  and  women  as  he 
thought  they  ought  to  be,  because  he  held  it  to  be  his 
business  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  humanity.  That  is 
the  keynote  of  his  Agamemnon  and  his  Prometheus  Vinctus, 
of  most  of  the  work  which  has  come  down  to  us.  A  great 
man  and  a  real  dramatist,  and  still  more  a  seer,  a  prophet, 
a  teacher.  The  third  of  the  Greek  dramatists  was 
Euripides,  who  tried  to  draw  men  and  women  as  he  thought 
they  were.  I  should  imagine  that  he,  like  many  modern 
men,  revolted  from  the  lofty  conception  of  humanity  as 
idealised  by  ^Eschylus.  He  had  no  particular  moral 
lessons  to  teach,  and  did  not  want  to  justify  the  ways  of 
God  to  man.  On  the  contrary,  one  of  his  aims  was  to 
justify  the  ways  of  men  to  gods,  to  show  how  unjust  the 
gods  were,  how  arbitrary,  how  poverty-stricken  in  idea. 
His  men,  as  we  see,  were  real  men  as  viewed  by  a  man  of 
experience,  his  women — to  the  astonishment  of  his  genera- 
tion— were  real  women,  and  his  general  aspect  was  more 
or  less  pessimistic.  It  is  a  poorish  sort  of  world,  he  seems 
to  say,  in  which  we  have  got  to  struggle,  and  strive,  and 
fail,  and  yet  make  the  best  of  it,  being  content  that  now  and 
again,  although  we  cannot  cure  the  evils,  we  can  at  least 
help  the  sufferers  with  a  little  ordinary  compassion  and 
sympathy. 

I  have  purposely  omitted  the  second  of  the  dramatists 
in  Greece.  Sophocles,  as  distinct  from  his  compeers,  was, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  neither  a  moralist  nor  a  realist,  but  an 
artist  through  and  through,  impersonal  and  remote — an 
artist  in  fibre,  whose  drama  gives  us  the  absolutely  Greek 
point  of  view,  a  little  idealised  here  and  there  no  doubt. 
He  will  not  extenuate,  he  certainly  will  not  set  down  any- 
thing in  malice;  but  he  will  draw  real  Greek  types,  and 
yet  leave  room  for  imagination  and  fancy,  and  provide 
some  sustenance  for  the  romantic  instincts. 

Here  is  an  exemplification  in  history  of  the  three  kinds 
of  dramatist  I  have  described.  A  man  can  paint  human 
beings  as  he  thinks  they  ought  to  be,  a  man  can  paint 
them  as  he  thinks  they  are.  The  first  is  what  we  ordi- 
narily recognise  as  an  Idealist ;  the  second  is,  undoubtedly, 
a  Realist.  If  modern  examples  are  required,  there  are 
many  to  choose  from.  Tolstoy,  for  instance — and  espe- 
cially in  a  play  like  Resurrection — is  an  Idealist  and  a 
preacher.  The  French  dramatist  Brieux  in  nearly  the 
whole  of  his  work  is  a  persistent  moralist,  believing,  as 


164    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

he  does,  that  it  is  the  function  of  drama  to  attack  the 
evils  of  the  age,  witness  Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont, 
Les  Avaries,  and  his  last  play,  La  Femme  Seule.  In  his 
treatment,  however,  of  these  evils  he  is  a  sheer  realist. 
Perhaps  Mr.  George  Bernard  Shaw  might  not  altogether 
appreciate  the  society  in  which  he  finds  himself,  but  he 
undoubtedly  is  in  some  aspects  an  idealist  and  a  preacher. 
His  method  may  be  the  method  of  realism,  but  he  is  in- 
tensely didactic,  always  running  a  tilt  against  the  follies 
and  hypocrisies  of  the  age.  One  need  only  cite  such 
pieces  as  The  Showing  Up  of  Blanco  Posnet,  The  Doctor's 
Dilemma,  Major  Barbara,  and  for  sheer  undiluted  idealism, 
Captain  Brassbound's  Conversion.  The  realistic  school,  as 
such,  I  shall  have  further  opportunities  of  portraying. 
But  the  third  species  of  dramatist  of  whom  I  have  spoken, 
the  man  who  is  artist  first  and  throughout,  who  exercises 
his  faculty  of  selection,  as  every  artist  should,  who  is  never 
a  didactic  moralist,  any  more  than  he  is  a  photographer, 
who  does  not  paint,  so  to  speak,  the  wrinkles  and  the 
pimples,  but  gives  you  the  general  meaning  of  the  face — 
the  Sophoclean  type  in  short — is  one  for  whom  there  is 
not  as  yet  a  name — except  the  good  old  name  of  dramatic 
artist.  Is  there,  however,  no  modern  example  ?  Yes, 
assuredly.  There  is  Shakespeare  himself.  He  is  full  of 
romance,  he  has  over  and  over  again  the  touch  of  the  ideal- 
ist, and  yet  no  man  will  tell  you  more  about  human  nature 
and  more  freely  give  you  live,  vivid,  and  freshly-drawn 
types.  He  is  quite  impersonal.  He  never  preaches 
ostentatiously  a  moral.  He  tells  you  how  things  happen 
and  lets  you  draw  your  own  conclusion.  His  object  is 
to  show  you  how  the  world  reveals  itself  to  an  artist — a 
very  high  and  serious  artist  who,  with  the  intuition  of 
genius,  understands  and  knows. 

Now  drama  follows  the  general  movements  of  thought  in 
the  world,  although  it  seems  to  follow  them  somewhat 
slowly.  This  is  a  point  which  must  be  elucidated  if  drama 
is  to  be  considered  as  a  serious  art,  an  art  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  term,  as  a  part  of  the  human  equipment,  as  much 
native  to  man  as  religion.  We  can  see  that  up  to  a  given 
time  in  the  nineteenth  century  modern  drama,  though  it 
may  have  in  appearance  aimed  high,  was  quite  artificial 
and  unreal.  Then  about  the  middle  and  towards  the  close 
of  the  nineteenth  century  it  gradually  became  imbued 
with  a  spirit  of  realism  which,  with  few  exceptions,  has 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  165 

continued  up  to  the  present  period.  And  what  is  the 
external  history  of  the  period  thus  summarily  indicated? 
We  know  that  the  great  feature  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
from  1850  onwards,  was  the  extraordinary  progress  of  science 
and  the  interpretation  of  nature.  Everywhere  it  was  dis- 
covered that  by  keeping  close  to  the  sphere  of  reality,  by 
seeking  to  understand  nature,  we  were  able  to  make  large 
progress,  not  only  in  knowledge,  but  also  in  the  practical 
conveniences  and  utilities  of  life.  If  science  won  successes 
in  the  intellectual  sphere,  they  were  rapidly  adapted  to  the 
uses  of  mankind,  and  the  conquest  over  nature  meant 
not  only  definite  mental  acquisition  but  a  larger  material 
comfort.  Thus  the  keynote  of  the  time  was  naturalism 
in  thought,  and  utilitarianism  in  morals  and  social  life. 

It  was  little  wonder,  then,  that  art  should,  in  its  turn, 
be  realistic.  The  other  arts — painting,  literature,  music — 
can  carry  on  their  spheres  of  activity  more  or  less  in  inde- 
pendence of  the  spirit  of  the  Age  :  although  they,  too,  when 
we  look  deeper,  are  subject  in  more  ways  than  one  to  large 
contemporary  influences.  But  the  art  of  drama — a  social 
art — must  necessarily  keep  very  close  to  the  stages  of  evolu- 
tion in  social  life  and  ethical  thought.  This  is,  of  course, 
the  meaning  of  Shakespeare's  famous  definition  of  acting 
and  the  actor  as  giving  "  the  age  and  body  of  the  time 
— its  form  and  pressure."  In  the  earlier  portions  of  the 
nineteenth  century  drama  might  strive  to  be  poetic, 
emotional;  but  when  the  reign  of  science  began  it  was 
bound  to  lose  some  of  its  idealistic  character  and  to  accom- 
modate itself  to  the  prevalent  conceptions  which  were,  of 
course,  realistic.  In  the  beginnings  of  the  present  century, 
however,  we  note,  here  and  there,  signs  of  reaction.  Even 
professors  of  science  are  beginning  to  be  discontented  with 
their  most  magnificent  victories.  When  all  nature  has 
yielded  up  her  secrets  there  still  remain  the  indefeasible 
claims  of  the  human  soul.  From  materialism,  as  such, 
recent  years  are  beginning  to  proclaim  a  revolt. 

But,  surely,  there  is  no  question  which  is  the  correct 
view,  at  all  events  to  us  children  of  the  nineteenth  century  ? 
The  problem  appears  to  be  settled.  We  are  only  con- 
cerned with  reality;  metaphysical  idealism  is  pure  talk 
and  word-spinning.  Let  us  think  of  all  that  this  scientific 
movement  has  accomplished.  Man  acquired  a  new  and 
infinitely  better  knowledge  of  nature's  workings,  and  thus 
was  able  by  technical  skill,  acquired  in  a  practical  school, 


166    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

to  make  all  sorts  of  improvements  directly  affecting  human 
existence,  which  in  consequence  became  wonderfully  en- 
riched, accelerated,  strengthened.  Social  problems  now 
became  of  prominent  interest,  existing  conditions  of  life 
had  to  be  improved.  The  object  of  man  was  to  secure 
universal  happiness  for  his  fellow-men.  Labour  was 
organised,  the  proper  distribution  of  wealth  became  one  of 
the  tasks  incumbent  on  man;  life  was  to  be  made  more 
happy.  Surely,  in  view  of  all  that  the  nineteenth  century 
has  done,  the  older  idealistic  views  are  but  vague  mists 
destined  to  disappear  before  the  light  of  the  sun.  From 
this  point  of  view  realism  can  be  our  only  gospel. 

Unfortunately,  the  matter  is  not  so  easy  as  it  seems. 
Idealism  has  certainly  taken  some  strange  shapes,  shapes 
which  we  now  acknowledge  to  be  of  not  much  value.  If, 
for  instance,  the  idealistic  drama  of  the  nineteenth  century 
is  represented  only,  let  us  say,  by  Sheridan  Knowles's 
Virginius,  or  by  Bulwer  Lytton's  The  Lady  of  Lyons  and 
Richelieu,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  by  Victor  Hugo's 
Cromwell,  then,  indeed,  it  seems  a  very  unreal,  purely  arti- 
ficial, quite  valueless  thing,  totally  unconnected  with  life 
as  we  know  it,  and  quite  righteously  doomed  to  perish. 
But  Idealism  is  a  much  subtler  thing  than  this,  intimately 
connected  with  the  nature  of  all  art.  We  speak  of  the 
triumphs  of  realism.  Well,  has  the  materialism  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  triumphed  all  along  the  line?  Has  the 
whole  life  of  man  become  transformed  into  the  material 
conditions  which  surround  him  ?  Is  a  man  a  mere  instru- 
ment for  doing  work?  Why,  this  work  itself  has  turned 
out  not  to  be  the  gloriously  unselfish  thing,  full  of  altruistic 
aims,  which  was  to  benefit  the  whole  of  humanity.1  What 
does  work  mean  to  the  majority  of  our  contemporaries? 
It  means  a  bitter  struggle  for  existence,  a  struggle  between 
individuals,  classes,  and  peoples,  and  the  passions  which 
the  struggle  has  aroused  show  how  every  day  the  field 
of  conflict  is  becoming  wider.  Is  it  so  true,  we  begin  to 
ask  ourselves,  that  mere  work  absorbs  the  whole  man? 
Work  never  develops  more  than  a  portion  of  human  faculty ; 
the  more  specialised  the  work,  the  smaller  the  portion. 
If  life  is  no  more  than  contact  with  environment,  it  is  a 
singularly  bare  and  poverty-stricken  thing.  Is  it  not 
clear  that  behind  the  work  are  sensitive  beings,  craving 

1  Written  before  the  War. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  167 

for  something  more  than  the  work  can  give  them,  demand- 
ing from  their  work  some  personal  compensation,   even 
though  the  work  itself  may  lose  ?    Does  not  the  continual 
striving  after  some  definite  material  result  or  success  breed 
a  certain  weariness  and  distaste,  and  afflict  us  with  the 
shadow  of  some  vaguely  recognised  pessimism  ?    What  is 
the  cause  of  this  deep-seated  uneasiness  ?    In  quite  simple 
language   we   can   give  the   answer.     If  work  no   longer 
satisfies  us,  it  is  because  it  leaves  the  soul  homeless.     If 
the  nineteenth  century,  which  more  than  any  other  period 
enlarged  the  whole  aspect  of  life  and  improved  human 
conditions,  instead  of  closing  with  a  proud  and  jubilant 
note  ended  rather  with  a  dissatisfied  and  querulous  wail, 
there  must  have  been  some  error  in  the  type  of  life  dominat- 
ing the  whole  epoch.     What  is  the  error?     Realism  tried 
to  get  rid  of  the  spirit  of  man,  to  prove  it  to  be  a  purely 
derivative  thing.     It  sought  to  eliminate  the  soul,  and  the 
soul  refuses  to  be  eliminated.     The  emphatic  denial  of  the 
soul  in  its  independent  activity  merely  rouses  the  soul  to 
further  life,   rouses   it  to   carry  on  with  whomsoever  it 
recognises  as  its  God  those  immortal  dialogues  which  are 
the  staple  of  all  Mystical  literature.     And  so  the  twentieth 
century  began  with  a  reaction,  and  examples  are  easily 
furnished.     After  Utilitarianism,  the  characteristic  philo- 
sophy of  the  nineteenth  century,  arose  Pragmatism,  which 
in  some  of  its  aspects  is  the  Ultima  Thule,  the  last  expres- 
sion, of  the  naturalistic  practical  movement.     But  Prag- 
matism would  now  seem  to  have  spent  its  force,  and  men 
read  Bergson.     So,  too,  in  Art ;   wearied  with  Realism  we 
turn  to  Symbolism   and    Mysticism  :    and  the  curiously 
suggestive,  symbolic    theatre  of  Maeterlinck   is   studied, 
even   in   the   midst    of    the  triumphs  of   the  school   of 
Ibsen. 

But  the  question  will  naturally  be  asked  :  Has  all  this 
anything  to  do  with  drama  ?  Well,  let  us  take  the  matter 
in  detail.  Modern  drama  in  England  has  run  through  three 
or  four  distinct  phases.  There  is  the  kind  of  drama  with 
which,  let  us  say,  Macready  had  to  concern  himself,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  very  bad  and  infertile  period  in  which  the  chief 
productions  were  either  adaptations  from  the  French  or 
else  burlesque,  many  of  which  again  had  a  French  ancestry. 
No  touch  or  breath  of  reality  came  across  English  drama 
till  about  1860,  or  rather,  to  be  accurate,  till  November 
14th,  1865,  when  a  piece  entitled  Society  was  played  at 


168    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre,  having  as  its  author  Tom 
Robertson.  From  that  time  onwards,  through  various 
illustrious  names,  the  English  drama  has  steadily  advanced 
in  a  direction  which  we  usually  call  naturalism  or  realism. 
Concurrently  with  this  movement  you  will  find  that  adap- 
tations from  Paris  began  to  be  rare.  The  native  drama 
has  found  its  feet.  The  largest  foreign  influence  is  that 
of  Ibsen.  None  of  our  writers  have  been  quite  the  same 
since  they  made  acquaintance  with  the  Norwegian  drama- 
tist. A  different  quality  has  come  into  their  work. 

If  such  be  in  outline  the  history  of  modern  drama,  you 
will  now  observe  that  it  fits  tolerably  into  the  scheme  I 
have  propounded.  There  was  a  time  when  every  philo- 
sopher called  himself  an  idealist,  and  sometimes  idealism 
was  exceedingly  vague,  shadowy,  and  unprofitable.  Then, 
concurrently  with  the  birth  of  vigorous  and  triumphant 
science,  philosophy  itself  turned  to  realism.  It  was  the 
latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  which  witnessed  the 
slow  and  hesitating  growth  on  the  English  stage  of  dramas 
of  realism.  The  only  question  is  whether  we  have  not 
got  to  the  end  of  the  realistic  tendency  at  the  present  time. 
Some  of  our  most  popular  writers,  it  is  true,  boast  that 
they  have  banished  romance.  But  romance  always  returns. 
It  is  like  nature  which  you  can  expel  with  a  pitchfork, 
"  tamen  usque  recurret"  The  lesson  which  modern  realistic 
drama  teaches  is  singularly  hard,  barren,  unsatisfying.  In 
what  mood  does  the  spectator  come  away  from  Hindle 
Wakes,  The  Eldest  Son,  The  New  Sin,  Rutherford  and  Son, 
and  The  Younger  Generation?  Does  not  the  something 
within  him — no  matter  its  name,  soul  or  spirit — feel 
starved  ?  Has  life  nothing  but  the  sordid  struggles  which 
some  of  these  dramatists  paint  ?  Can  anything  more  de- 
pressing be  conceived  than  the  dramas  of  Mr.  Galsworthy 
—Justice,  Strife,  The  Eldest  Son?  After  a  tragedy  by 
Shakespeare — even  after  a  world-ruin  like  King  Lear — 
I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  the  spirit  is  uplifted,  alert, 
passionately  believing  in  the  reality  of  moral  ideals.  Does 
any  one  ever  have  such  a  feeling  after  a  modern  realistic 
drama?  It  is  possible,  therefore,  that  a  reaction  may  be 
slowly  organising  itself  against  some  of  the  forms  of  realism 
which  have  invaded  our  theatre.  Perhaps  even  the  war 
may  usher  in  a  better,  newer,  more  fruitful  kind  of  ideal- 
ism, which  assuredly  must  be  built  up  on  experience  and 
veritable  data,  but  which  shall  find  room  within  its  scheme 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  169 

for  unconquerable  romance,  for    imagination,  for  fancy, 
for  faith,  for  love — in  short,  for  the  human  soul. 

It  was  undoubtedly  an  uninspiring  and  difficult  task 
which  Macready  had  before  him  when  he  attempted  to 
carry  out  his  artistic  mission.  Macready,  without  ques- 
tion, had  certain  instincts  which  we  should  class  as  modern 
and  realistic,  but  the  material  with  which  he  had  to  deal, 
and  his  contemporary  authors,  defeated  most  of  his  efforts. 
He  had,  without  doubt,  his  limitations,  although  no  one 
who  has  even  cursorily  perused  his  recently  published 
Diaries  can  question  the  fact  that  he  had,  in  an  almost 
tragic  degree,  the  temperament  of  a  sensitive  and  self- 
castigating  artist.  Now  what  was  the  kind  of  work  by 
English  authors  which  he  found  ready  to  his  hand  ?  I  will 
take  only  two  instances — Sheridan  Knowles  and  Lytton 
Bulwer.  James  Sheridan  Knowles,  an  Irish  schoolmaster, 
who  had  also  been  an  actor,  whose  father  was  first  cousin 
to  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  brought  to  Macready  a 
tragedy  called  Virginius,  widely  proclaimed  as  a  return 
to  truth  and  to  nature  as  against  existing  artificialities  of 
the  times.  Virginius  is  an  admirable  example  of  the 
ordinary  bourgeois  drama,  a  bourgeois  drama  applied, 
unfortunately,  to  Roman  tragedy.  Every  one  knows,  of 
course,  the  story  of  the  soldier  Virginius,  who  killed  his 
daughter  rather  than  she  should  fall  into  the  hands  of 
Appius.  When  Shakespeare  dealt  with  Roman  plays,  he 
made,  it  is  true,  his  characters  Englishmen,  but  he  made 
them  of  heroic  mould.  Brutus  and  Julius  Caesar,  Mark 
Antony,  and  the  rest,  are  certainly  not  commonplace, 
even  though  one  can  hardly  describe  them  as  accurately 
drawn  in  accordance  with  their  Latin  types.  But  of  all 
the  characters  of  Sheridan  Knowles's  play,  it  can  safely 
be  said  that  they  are  just  mediocre,  bourgeois,  common- 
place Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  of  the  times.  Vir- 
ginius, for  instance,  is  an  excellent  father  of  the  middle 
class,  whom  we  could  imagine  going  down  to  his  City 
office  every  day  and  returning  to  the  suburbs  in  the  evening. 
Virginia,  the  lovely  heroine,  is  a  simpering  schoolgirl — a 
virtuous  idiot.  If  this  is  what  a  return  to  nature  meant, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  it  is  a  kind  of  nature  that  we 
do  not  want  perpetuated.1  Douglas  Jerrold  was  in  reality 

1  Cf.  Le  Theatre  Anglais,  by  A.  Filon  (chaps.  1  and  2),  to  whose  admirable 
study  of  dramatic  history  I  am  much  indebted. 


170    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

mf+ 

a  better  dramatist  than  Sheridan  Knowles,  and  the  first 
act  of  his  Rent  Day,  which  was  played  in  1832,  is  a  striking 
piece  of  work.  But  Jerrold,  though  he  had  undoubtedly 
considerable  originality  of  his  own,  had  to  bow  to  the  public 
taste  of  the  time.  He  wrote  Black-eyed  Susan,  perhaps  his 
greatest  success,  undoubtedly  also  his  worst  play.  The 
hero  is,  of  course,  that  kind  of  seaman  beloved  of  melo- 
drama, compact  of  virtue  and  noble  sentiments ;  and  the 
heroine,  though  she  is  born  from  the  lower  ranks,  can 
express  the  most  exalted  sentiments  in  a  flowing  and 
slightly  academic  style.  The  whole  piece  is  a  mass  of 
unlikelihoods  and  absurdities  :  a  very  characteristic  in- 
stance, as  it  seems  to  me,  of  that  somewhat  gross  and 
common  idealism  of  the  crowd  which  likes  to  be  transported 
when  it  goes  into  a  theatre  into  another  region  where 
goodness  is  always  rewarded,  vice  always  punished,  and 
"  the  man  who  lifts  his  hand  against  a  woman  "  is  repro- 
bated by  the  howls  of  the  gallery  gods. 

There  came  a  time  when  Macready,  face  to  face  with 
failure,  felt  that  he  must  try  to  retrieve  his  fortunes  in 
America.  He  wrote  to  young  Browning.  "  Make  a  play 
for  me,"  he  said,  "  and  prevent  me  from  going  to  America." 
The  play  was  written.  It  was  Strafford.  It  had,  I  think, 
four  representations,  but  the  unhappy  Macready  was  not 
prevented  from  going  to  America.  Still,  a  number  of  men 
of  intelligence  felt  it  their  duty  to  come  to  the  help  of  the 
distressed  Macready.  John  Forster  busied  himself  in  the 
matter  with  characteristic  energy;  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  a 
tragedy.  But,  above  all,  Lytton  Bulwer  composed  three 
pieces,  all  of  which  enjoyed  a  distinguished  celebrity  at 
the  time,  and  were  played,  undoubtedly,  to  full  houses. 
These  three  pieces  are  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  Richelieu,  and 
Money,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  them 
is  furthest  removed  from  that  kind  of  reality  to  which 
the  stage  should  aspire.  We  ought  to  speak,  I  suppose, 
with  a  certain  respect  of  the  name  of  Bulwer,  because  he 
was  an  exceedingly  prolific  writer,  a  noted  novelist,  poet, 
politician,  orator,  as  well  as  a  dramatist.  His  novels  were 
enough  to  make  him  famous.  Every  one  knows  something 
about  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  or  Rienzi,  or  Ernest 
Maltravers,  or  The  Caxtons,  or  Kenelm  Chillingly.  As  a 
dramatist  he  represented  a  sort  of  amalgam  of  different 
authors,  without  having  any  very  precise  characteristics 
of  his  own.  For  instance,  he  had  some  touches  of  Byron, 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  171 

as  much,  at  all  events,  as  a  man  of  the  world  ought  to  have 
without  giving  offence  to  English  respectability.  He  also 
copied  Victor  Hugo  to  a  large  extent — or,  shall  we  say, 
was  inspired  by  Victor  Hugo  ?  No  one  would  pretend  that 
his  poetry  was  of  the  highest  order,  any  more  than  that 
his  historical  romances  were  in  any  sense  true.  But  he 
possessed  a  kind  of  windy  rhetoric  which  pleased  his 
generation,  and  he  seemed  to  be  a  great  figure  in  the  annals 
of  his  time.  The  Lady  of  Lyons  is  still  played,  I  believe, 
sometimes  in  America;  it  is  not  so  very  many  years  ago 
since  it  was  played  in  London  by  Mr.  Coghlan  and  Mrs. 
Langtry,  and  by  Mr.  Kyrle  Belle w  and  Mrs.  Brown-Potter. 
Of  all  species  of  dramatic  composition,  melodrama, 
which  has  to  be  accepted  literally  and  is  adorned  with  the 
veneer  of  literature,  is  perhaps  absolutely  the  worst. 
Every  one  likes  melodrama.  It  has  a  frank  charm,  an 
undeniable  glamour.  But  it  must  not  attempt  to  be 
either  literal  or  literary.  In  The  Lady  of  Lyons  we  have 
great  purple  patches  of  poetry  covering  the  bare  places 
in  an  unreal  melodramatic  plot.  None  of  the  characters 
have  any  peculiar  reality  about  them — they  all  ring  false. 
Madame  Deschapelles  comes  from  the  Palais  Royal. 
Pauline,  the  heroine,  can  change  her  character  in  the  course 
of  the  play,  and  pass  from  haughtiness  to  humility,  from 
a  stupid  arrogance  to  an  equally  foolish  submission,  with- 
out turning  a  hair.  And  the  worst  element  in  the  piece 
is  the  hero,  Claud  Melnotte,  who  is  simply  a  villain  if  we 
take  him  seriously,  certainly  a  charlatan  and  a  cheat. 
Being  nothing  more  than  a  simple  peasant,  he  passes  him- 
self off  as  a  prince,  and  marries  under  a  false  name  a  well- 
dowered  young  lady.  And  he  talks  throughout  the  play 
as  though  he  were  a  model  of  the  highest  virtue  !  The 
once-famous  play  Richelieu  is  in  no  sense  better  than  The 
Lady  of  Lyons.  No  one  for  a  moment  would  imagine 
that  Richelieu  is  any  closer  to  actual  history  than,  let  us 
say,  Victor  Hugo's  Cromwell.  It  is  all  false  rhetoric,  as 
well  as  false  history.  As  the  French  critic  M.  Filon  once 
said,  "  It  is  a  sort  of  plaster  Hugo,  daubed  over  with  bad 
Alexander  Dumas."  And  what  shall  we  say  of  Money, 
which  has  had  a  distinguished  stage  history  and  been 
played  by  very  distinguished  actors  and  actresses  ?  If 
any  one  wants  to  understand  how  the  native  English 
drama  has  grown  within  recent  years,  how  it  has  come  to 
be  something  worth  talking  about,  worthy  of  being  put 


172    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

side  by  side  with  the  dramatic  literature  of  France  and 
Germany,  let  him  take  the  next  opportunity  he  can  find — 
it  may  be  difficult  to  find  an  opportunity — of  seeing  Bulwer 
Lytton's  Money.  It  is  all  as  dull  and  insincere  and  unreal 
as  any  drama  can  be;  the  characters  are  not  related  to 
life  as  we  know  it.  The  piece  is  full  of  theatricality  in  the 
worst  sense  of  that  word.  The  hero  is  a  prig,  the  heroine 
a  lady  of  extraordinary  refinements  and  such  abounding 
conscience  that  she  kills  our  sympathy  in  laughter.  These 
were  some  of  the  pieces  which  stood  for  the  English  drama 
in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  They  represent 
a  form  of  idealism  which  was  bound  to  be  shattered  at  the 
first  contact  with  truth.  Directly  it  came  to  be  under- 
stood that  the  stage,  instead  of  dealing  with  imaginative 
fiction,  should  attempt,  in  however  humble  a  fashion,  to 
represent  actual  life,  all  such  pieces  as  Virginius,  Black-eyed 
Susan,  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  Richelieu,  Money,  were  swept 
into  that  limbo  of  oblivion  from  which  there  is  no  return. 
And  the  same  thing  would  be  true  also  of  the  burlesques 
which  Henry  James  Byron  poured  forth  with  so  prodigal  a 
hand.  Some  of  Tom  Taylor's  pieces,  such  as  The  Ticket- 
of -Leave  Man  and  Still  Waters  Run  Deep,  still  survive; 
while  Dion  Boucicault  struck  out  a  new  and  interesting 
variety  of  melodrama  by  his  Irish  pieces,  such  as  Colleen 
Bawn,  Arrah-na-pogue,  and  The  Shaughraun.  But  realism, 
as  we  understand  it,  made  its  first,  shy  appearance  only 
with  Tom  Robertson,  after  1860. 

In  dating  the  tendency  to  realism  from  the  first  pro- 
duction of  the  Robertsonian  comedy,  I  am  quite  aware 
that  I  shall  not  have  the  sympathy  of  many  critics.  As 
we  look  back  from  our  present  point  of  vantage,  it  no 
doubt  seems  obvious  that  Robertson's  plays  were  anything 
but  realistic,  in  the  sense  in  which  we  understand  the  term, 
but  in  many  respects  extremely  artificial.  It  was  in 
reference  to  this  doubtless  that  Matthew  Arnold  said  that 
English  drama,  floating  uneasily  between  heaven  and 
earth,  was  "  neither  idealistic  nor  realistic,  but  purely 
fantastic."  But  here  we  must  distinguish  a  little.  In 
tracing  the  history  of  any  movement,  we  must  carefully 
keep  apart  the  spirit  which  animates  it  from  some  of  its 
admitted  effects  and  results.  It  may  be  true  that  some  of 
the  plays,  such  as  Ours  and  School,  were  utterly  fantastic 
in  character  and  in  structure.  But  the  thing  which 
Robertson  was  aiming  at,  the  half-realised  scope  of  his 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  173 

enterprise,  these  are  the  points  which  ought  to  interest 
us.  The  truth  is  that  we  have  here,  almost  for  the  first 
time,  an  effort  on  the  part  of  modern  English  drama  to 
achieve  some  originality  of  its  own.  Up  to  this  date,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  the  English  stage  was,  as  I  have  said,  in 
entire  subservience  to  the  French  stage.  Adaptations  of 
French  plays,  dramas,  comedies,  farces,  even  melodramas, 
were  recognised  to  be  the  legitimate  avocation  of  the 
dramatic  writers  in  our  own  country.  At  all  events, 
Robertson  shook  off  this  foreign  bondage.  He  tried  to  do 
something  that  belonged  to  himself  alone,  and  for  that  we 
owe  him  more  gratitude  than  we  sometimes  are  inclined 
to  acknowledge. 

There  is  also  another  consideration.  Realism  is,  of 
course,  as  we  have  seen,  a  vague  term.  At  all  events,  we 
can  have  a  Realism  in  externals,  as  well  as  a  Realism  in 
internal  spirit.  Do  not  let  us  despise  the  former  :  it  may 
be  the  beginning  of  better  things.  When  the  Bancrofts 
commenced  their  historic  enterprise  in  the  Prince  of  Wales' s 
Theatre,  they  at  all  events  gave  us  Realism  in  externals. 
The  rooms  that  we  saw  on  the  stage  were  real  rooms  pro- 
perly carpeted  and  boxed  in,  a  ceiling  was  provided, 
together  with  appropriate  furniture,  such  as  could  be 
found  in  any  West-end  drawing-room.  This,  indeed,  was 
part  of  the  crusade  which  the  Bancroft  management  was 
undertaking.  By  making  their  little  theatre  a  nest  of 
something  like  luxury,  by  being  careful  in  the  plays  they 
produced  to  imitate  the  tone,  accent,  the  manners,  the 
costume  of  the  upper  classes  and  the  upper  middle  classes, 
these  reformers  of  the  theatre  were  initiating  an  economic 
revolution — the  beginnings  of  a  reconciliation  between 
society  and  the  stage.  Earlier  in  the  nineteenth  century 
managers  were  always  complaining  that  the  wealthy 
classes  conld  not  possibly  be  tempted  to  enter  the  doors  of 
a  theatre.  But  the  Bancrofts  managed  to  succeed  where 
others  had  failed.  The  price  of  the  stalls  was  raised  to 
half  a  guinea,  a  daring  stroke  of  policy  which  had  its 
significant  results  in  the  fact  that  these  stalls  were  always 
full.  Society  saw  something  which  it  really  could  recog- 
nise as  part  of  its  own  daily  life,  and  to  its  own  surprise 
found  itself  coming  to  an  obscure  street  close  to  the  Totten- 
ham Court  Road,  where  it  never  had  found  itself  before. 
This  little  theatre,  in  fact,  built  in  a  slum,  became  the 
rendezvous  of  aristocracy,  and  from  this  time  forward  it 


174    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

will  be  found  that  young  men  and  young  women  of  good 
position  and  good  birth  began  to  seek  a  career  upon  the 
boards.  The  style  of  acting  suited  them,  it  was  so  natural 
and  easy,  so  devoid  of  all  emotional  excess,  so  quiet,  so 
restrained — in  a  word,  so  gentlemanly,  so  ladylike.  But 
because  all  this,  though  Realism  of  a  kind,  was  only  a 
superficial  Realism,  the  drama  was  not  yet  considered 
something  in  which  the  intellectual  classes  could  find 
interest.  Society  might  be  reconciled  to  the  stage,  but 
there  was  still  the  divorce  between  the  acted  drama  and 
the  deeper  thoughts  of  students  of  life.  That  reconcilia- 
tion had  yet  to  come. 

Probably   there  was  no  more  curious   or  exciting  an 
evening  than  the  premiere  of   Society,  produced  on  the 
14th  of  November,  1865.     Society  is  by  no  means  a  good 
play,  nor  is  it  characteristically  Robertsonian,  except  in 
one    point — Robertson's    knowledge    of    Bohemian    life. 
Those  who  were  interested  in  the  production  of  the  play 
were  especially  afraid  of  the  third  act,  in  which  was  repre- 
sented the  "  Owl's  Roost,"  a  more  or  less  faithful  tran- 
script of  the  manners  and  habits  of  Bohemians  and  their 
clubs.     For  would  not  these  same  Bohemians  resent  such 
a  delineation  on  the  stage  ?    Would  they  not  think  that 
Robertson  had  been  unfaithful  to  his  old  friends  and  his 
own  traditions  of  good  fellowship  ?    Therefore  it  was  rather 
an  anxious  little  company  which  commenced  the  perform- 
ance of  Society ;  and  Marie  Wilton,  as  she  then  was — Lady 
Bancroft  as  she  is  now  named — mainly  responsible  for  the 
venture,  is  always  supposed  to  have  occupied  the  final 
minute  before  the  curtain  went  up  in  nailing  with  her  own 
hands  some  little  piece  of  stage  decoration  which  had  gone 
awry.     But  the   result  exceeded  all  anticipations.     The 
tender  little  scenes  of  lovemaking  in  a  London  square, 
which  occupied  the  second  act,  seemed  pleasantly  to  sug- 
gest that  romance  was  still  possible  under  the  plane-trees, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  fogs  of  our  Metropolis.     But  it  was 
the  much-dreaded  third  act  which  made  the  success  of  the 
play,  especially  the  celebrated  incident  of  the  five  shillings 
loan.     A  young  man  going  to  some  evening  social  function 
finds  himself  devoid  of  the  necessary  wherewithal  to  pay 
his  cab.     He  asks  the  first  Bohemian  friend  he  meets  to 
lend  him  five  shillings.     "  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  not  got  it ; 
but  I  can  easily  borrow  it  for  you."     And  then  we  see  a 
series  of  attempted  borrowings,  each  man  asking  his  neigh- 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  175 

bour  in  a  laughable  progress  of  generous  inclination  and 
of  admitted  impecuniosity.  At  last  some  one  discovers 
the  two  necessary  half-crowns,  and  then  in  inverse  order 
the  precious  cab  fare  travels  from  hand  to  hand  back  to 
the  original  borrower.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  real 
incident,  and  perhaps  was  recognised  as  all  the  more 
laughable  on  that  account.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
Bohemians,  at  all  events,  were  real,  for  they  probably  all 
had  prototypes.  As  to  the  other  characters,  however, 
they  were  purely  fantastic.  Lady  Ptarmigant  takes  the 
arm  of  old  Mr.  Chodd  without  hesitation,  although  he  is 
what  we  should  now  call  a  "  bounder"  of  the  first  water. 
Lord  Ptarmigant — a  character  which  John  Hare  rendered 
illustrious — had  nothing  to  say  and  had  only  a  single  trick 
— he  dragged  his  chair  with  him  wherever  he  went,  sat 
down,  fell  asleep  at  once,  and  most  of  the  company  tumbled 
over  his  outstretched  legs.  Marie  Wilton  (Lady  Bancroft) 
was  charming,  as  she  always  was,  because  Robertson 
amongst  other  gifts  had  remarkable  skill  in  devising 
characters  which  would  just  suit  her  inimitable  espieglerie, 
her  sparkling  personality.  And  Mr.  Bancroft  brought  upon 
the  stage  a  new  type  of  languid  Englishman.  Sothern,  in 
his  "  Lord  Dundreary,"  had  represented  an  English  aris- 
tocrat as  an  absolutely  brainless  idiot.  When  the  aristocrat 
appeared  on  the  boards  he  was  generally  made  into  a 
caricature  of  fatuous  imbecility.  But  Mr.  Bancroft — as 
he  was  then  called — put  before  the  eyes  of  his  audience  a 
presentable,  as  well  as  a  real,  specimen  of  a  man  of  breeding, 
a  little  haughty  and  disdainful,  full  of  absurd  airs,  but  by 
no  means  a  fool,  and  always  good-hearted.  Of  course, 
the  most  notorious  example  of  his  skill  was  Hawtree  in 
Caste,  whose  appearance  under  the  humble  roof  of  the 
Eccles  family  is  so  irresistibly  comic.  He  is  so  entirely  a 
fish  out  of  water,  and  yet  so  affably  and  pleasantly  at  home 
— a  gentleman,  in  short,  who  is  full  of  native  kindliness. 
Through  all  this  series  of  plays,  Society,  Ours,  Caste,  School 
— to  take  the  best-known  representatives  of  the  Robertson- 
ian  comedy — the  characters  assigned  to  Bancroft  and  his 
wife  never  varied  in  general  form,  although  in  unessential 
details  they  may  have  varied.  But  if  we  look  at  them  as 
a  whole  we  are  bound  to  confess  that  these  comedies,  full 
of  easy  grace  and  pleasantry,  admirably  written,  endowed 
with  a  certain  freshness  of  their  own,  were  yet  rightly 
named  of  "  the  milk-and-water  school "  and  "the  tea- 


176    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

cup-and-saucer  type,"   more  than  a  little  fantastic  and 
artificial. 

For  some  twenty  years  after  the  Robertsonian  drama 
had  run  its  course,  nothing  critical  or  important  in  the 
direction  of  what  we  have  called  Realism  is  to  be  noted. 
Even  after  Robertson  there  was  an  undiminished  flow  of 
adaptations  from  the  French.  All  the  leading  dramatists 
were  occupied  in  this  curiously  ignoble  and  servile  task. 
It  was  considered  the  right  thing  to  do ;  at  all  events,  from 
the  managerial  standpoint  it  was  considered  the  safe  thing 
to  do.  The  French  dramatists,  from  Scribe  onwards, 
including  Dumas  fils,  Augier,  Sardou,  and  the  rest,  were 
held  as  the  original  patentees  of  a  correct  kind  of  drama. 
They  had  inherited  the  tradition  of  the  "  piece  Men  faite" 
from  Scribe,  although  gradually  they  were  breaking  from 
it.  At  any  rate,  they  were  models  and  examples,  and  the 
English  theatres  were  in  haste  to  borrow  from  them  whole- 
sale. Remember,  for  instance,  that  Mr.  Sydney  Grundy— 
who  ought  to  have  been,  and  afterwards  proved  himself 
to  be,  an  original  dramatist — was  largely  occupied  with 
adaptations  from  the  French,  and  we  shall  understand  how 
the  lesser  fry  thought  it  no  unworthy  task  to  transplant  into 
alien  conditions  French  drama,  which,  for  the  most  part, 
was  ill-suited  for  any  such  crossing  of  the  Channel.  Almost 
the  one  exception  was  the  extremely  successful  adaptation 
of  Sardou' s  Dora,  under  the  title  Diplomacy,  which  was 
not  long  ago  revived  with  great  success  in  London. 
It  is  clear,  of  course,  that  in  this  respect  English  drama 
was  in  leading-strings,  arid  it  was  not  until  a  reaction  came, 
not  until  it  was  discovered  that  plays  could  be  written  on 
English  subjects,  full  of  English  ideas  which  would  bring 
money  into  the  managerial  till,  that  any  change  for  the 
better  could  come  about.  In  this  noble  duty  of  establish- 
ing a  modern  English  stage  there  are  three  names  especially 
prominent,  although  their  work  was  essentially  different : 
the  names  of  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Sydney  Grundy,  and 
Arthur  Pinero.  If  I  were  dealing  with  the  rise  of  the 
modern  English  drama,  I  should  have  to  say  a  good  deal 
both  of  Grundy  and  of  Arthur  Jones.  But  the  subject  I 
am  considering  is  the  growth  of  Realism,  a  more  special 
point  that  we  must  now  look  at  again  with,  perhaps,  an 
attempt  at  a  clearer  elucidation  of  its  object  and  aims. 

The  dramatist  whom  we  call  realistic,  in  the  first  place, 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  177 

accepts  the  conditions  of  the  time  in  which  he  works  and 
the  country  which  is  the  scene  of  his  labours.     He  begins, 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  principle  that  England  has  its  own 
way  of  life  and  action,  a  way  of  its  own,  not  by  any  means 
the  same  as  that  of  other  nations.     That  principle,  of  course, 
cuts  at  the  root  of  all  foreign  adaptation.     Most  of  the 
French  dramas  are  racy  of  the  French  soil.     The  Parisian 
drawing-room  is  not  the  same  as  the  London  drawing- 
room;    the  characters  move  and  talk  in  different  fashion. 
From  that  we  advance  to  another  principle.     Each  age 
has    its    own    particular    problems.     The    journalist    and 
historian  deal  with  these  day  after  day.     They  mark  the 
rise  of  a  certain  tendency,  the  gradual  development  of  a 
new  state  of  thought  and  feeling,  the  influence  of  novel 
ideas  as  they  affect  the  settled  conditions  of  English  life. 
Take  only  a  simple  example.     There  is,  and  has  been,  in 
England  a  distinct  school  which  we  call  the  school  of 
Puritanism,  which  has  set  itself  with  a  remarkable  deter- 
mination, sometimes  from  the  highest  motives,  but  other 
times  apparently  through  sheer  blind  prejudice,  against 
art  and  all  its  manifestations,  including,  of  course,  dramatic 
art.     Now,  here  is  a  state  of  things  which  you  certainly 
cannot  find  in  Paris  and  France.     It  is  indigenous  with  us. 
As  soon  as  a  dramatist  begins  to  think  it  his  proper  duty  to 
put  on  the  stage  actual  conditions  of  life  as  it  is  lived  by 
the  men  and  women  around  him,  he  is  confronted  by  the 
Puritanical   objection   to  many   of  those   features   which 
illustrate  the  artistic  career.     The  dramatist,  we  will  sup- 
pose, is  not  inclined  to  take  the  censures  of  the  Puritans 
lying  down;    he  strikes  blow  for  blow.     Thus  you  get  a 
drama  like  Henry  Arthur  Jones's  Saints  and  Sinners  (1884) 
— a  serious  study  of  provincial  life  as  dominated  by  narrow 
evangelicalism  and  the  fury  of  the  zealot.     The  two  church- 
wardens in  the  play,  who  are  called  by  characteristic  names, 
Hoggard  and  Prabble,  represent  that  kind  of  religiosity 
which  is  only  an  organised  hypocrisy.     For  if  the  Puritans 
charged  art  and  drama  with  suggested  infractions  of  the 
moral  code,  the  dramatist  retorts  by  charging  the  Puri- 
tans with  caring  for  the  letter  of  the  law  and  forgetting  its 
spirit,  with  tithing  mint  and  anise  and  cummin,  and  over- 
looking the  simple  obligations  of  charity  and  forgiveness. 
But  we  must  not  be  diverted  by  taking  the  instance  of 
Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  because  he   has   never  been  a 
Realist,  and  never  pretended  for  a  moment  that  Realism 


178    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

should  be  an  ideal  at  which  the  dramatic  writer  ought  to 
aim.  I  only  refer  to  the  play  as  an  illustration  of  how 
the  modern  English  drama,  if  it  is  to  be  vital,  must  deal 
with  actual  conditions  of  English  life. 

The  Realist  then,  as  such,  advances  to  a  third  principle. 
He  has  already  acknowledged  that  drama  must  be  English 
and  that  it  must  have  as  its  subject  the  contemporary 
problems  of  its  time.  But  there  is  something  else  besides. 
The  characters  of  his  play  must  not  be  idealised  or  exag- 
gerated, or  transformed  in  any  fashion  by  his  imagination 
or  fancy,  but  must  be  put  before  us  exactly  as  psycho- 
logical analysis  reveals  them.  Men,  we  discover,  work  not 
from  a  single  motive,  but  from  complex  motives.  Their 
duties  are  performed,  not  always  owing  to  a  sense  of  moral 
obligation,  but  often  because  they  happen  to  coincide 
with  self-interest.  Man  is  three-quarters  mean  and  only 
one  quarter,  and  very  occasionally,  noble.  Woman  is  not 
an  angelic  figure  to  be  placed  on  a  pedestal  and  worshipped 
in  a  sacred  niche  with  an  aureole  round  her  head.  Still 
less  is  she  the  purely  domestic  drudge,  but  a  human  crea- 
ture exactly  on  the  same  level  as  man,  acting,  as  he  does, 
from  conflicting  motives  which  she  hardly  understands, 
occasionally  doing  things  right,  as  he  does,  more  often 
doing  things  wrong,  as  he  does,  with  particular  temptations 
of  her  own  which  she  finds  it  difficult  to  resist. 

Now  directly  we  begin  to  study  humanity  with  the  aid 
of  scientific  analysis,  we  have  to  take  stock  of  these  things, 
to  say  farewell  to  the  older  conceptions  of  drama  which 
made  the  hero  or  heroine  prosper  in  the  end  because  he 
or  she  was  good,  and  made  the  villain  suffer  in  the  last  act 
because  he  was  bad.  Further,  the  romantic  aspects  of 
life  tend,  as  a  consequence  of  this  analysis,  to  disappear. 
Romance  is  certainly  not  the  daily  food  of  human  beings, 
and  it  is  the  everyday  bread  of  humanity  which  we  are 
concerned  with.  Thus  a  mortal  blow  is  struck  at  the 
romantic  drama,  say,  of  Victor  Hugo  or  of  Bulwer  Lytton, 
until  at  last  we  get,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  George  Bernard 
Shaw,  a  distinct  and  determined  attack  against  all  romance, 
as  being  worthless,  even  if  it  exists,  and  unessential  to  the 
dramatist  because  it  does  not  exist.  Watch  the  single 
love  scene  in  Mr.  Shaw's  John  Bull's  Other  Island,  and  you 
will  see  how  carefully  the  author  has  divested  it  of  any 
touch  of  romantic  glamour  or  poetic  grace. 

A  further  consequence  of  this  realistic  way  of  regarding 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  179 

character  is  that  we  learn  not  to  be  afraid  to  call  things 
by  their  right  names.  The  older  dramatist  lived  in  a  world 
of  his  own,  where  certain  ugly  facts  were  glossed  over  or 
forgotten,  or,  at  all  events,  not  emphasised.  But  the 
modern  realistic  playwriter,  believing  that  such  reticence 
is  foolish  and  wrong,  will  give  you  the  ugly  facts  with  just 
their  ugly  names  without  shame.  And  from  this  point 
of  view  there  is  no  question  that  Mr.  Shaw's  Widowers' 
Houses,  produced  in  December,  1892,  was  a  very  remark- 
able instance  of  a  modern  realistic  play,  including  also  a 
didactic  element  which  is  never  far  absent  from  the  work 
of  Mr.  Shaw.  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  is,  of  course, 
another  illustrative  example. 

Reviewing  some  of  the  features  to  which  I  have  called 
attention,  we  discover  at  once  that  an  exceedingly  impor- 
tant and  comprehensive  influence  came  from  the  work  of 
Henrik  Ibsen,  whose  social  dramas,  produced  in  London, 
were  received  with  undisguised  hostility  from  1890  onwards, 
but  also  profoundly  altered  the  conception  of  drama  in 
the  minds  of  many  English  dramatists.  And  a  date  of 
no  little  significance  as  a  prophecy  of  things  to  come  is  the 
24th  of  April,  1889,  when  John  Hare  opened  the  new 
Garrick  Theatre  with  The  Profligate,  by  Pinero.  It  was  a 
prophecy,  I  say,  of  things  to  come,  because  The  Profligate 
as  a  play  is  in  many  respects  an  unripe  piece  of  work,  full 
of  immaturity,  if  we  look  back  to  it  from  the  later  work 
of  the  same  author.  Nevertheless,  it  marks  in  its  aims 
and  objects,  and  also  to  some  extent  in  its  achievement, 
a  very  notable  advance  on  anything  which  had  been  seen 
hitherto — an  advance,  I  venture  to  think,  in  the  direction 
of  Realism  which  was  consummated  a  good  deal  later,  on 
the  27th  of  May,  1893,  when  George  Alexander  produced 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA 

II 

IT  was  suggested  at  the  end  of  the  last  paper  that  the  pro- 
duction of  The  Profligate  at  the  Garrick  Theatre  in  1889 
was  a  significant  event,  and,  indeed,  was  prophetic  of  the 
much  more  important  occasion — the  production  of  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  in  May,  1893.  I  shall  be  concerned 
in  the  present  article  with  the  progress  of  Realism  in  Drama, 
and  with  some  of  those  pieces  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  which 
were  conceived  and  executed  in  a  realistic  vein.  Those 
which  are  convenient  for  my  purpose  in  this  respect  are 
The  Profligate,  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The  Benefit  of 
the  Doubt,  the  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  and  Iris.  These 
are  all  realistic  plays  in  the  sense  which  has  been  already 
defined.  The  dramatist  writing  about  his  own  country 
and  his  own  times  desires  to  paint  not  flattering  portraits 
but  veracious  likenesses.  He  does  not  want  to  ignore  the 
ordinary  conditions,  the  salient  characteristics  of  the  era 
in  which  he  lives.  He  believes  it  to  be  his  business  to  look 
steadily  at  the  social  fabric,  to  observe  the  different  ele- 
ments of  which  it  is  composed,  to  note  the  peculiar  perils 
which  surround  and  enfeeble  its  health,  and  to  play  the 
part,  not  indeed  of  a  reformer,  for  that  would  be  too 
didactic  an  aim  for  an  artist — or,  at  all  events,  for  some 
artists — but  of  a  keen,  quick-witted,  and  occasionally 
sympathetic  observer.  And  in  similar  fashion  with  regard 
to  the  personages  of  this  drama,  the  playwright  will  seek 
to  draw  men  and  women,  not  as  viewed  through  the  spec- 
tacles of  a  fantastic  imagination,  but  in  their  habit  as  they 
live.  If  he  does  this  with  a  certain  remorselessness,  he  is 
a  Realist. 

Now  it  is  exactly  this  remorselessness  of  his  which  gets 
him  into  trouble  with  a  number  of  different  sections  of 
our  world.  He  is  unflinching  in  his  portrayal,  and  men  do 
not  like  unflinching  portrait-painters.  They  want  the 
picture  touched  up  by  some  indulgent  and  benevolent 

180 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  181 

philanthropist.  The  realist  refuses  to  play  with  what 
he  deems  to  be  the  truth.  At  the  time  when  the  younger 
Dumas  was  writing  extremely  interesting  though  not 
altogether  persuasive  prefaces  to  his  plays,  and  was 
particularly  occupied  with  some  of  the  destructive  activi- 
ties of  modern  woman — a  subject  which,  as  we  are  aware, 
attracted  him  strongly — he  made  some  remarks  about  the 
things  we  ought  to  laugh  at  and  the  things  we  ought  not 
to  laugh  at.  "It  is  our  common  habit  in  France,"  he 
wrote,  "  to  laugh  at  serious  things."  We  may,  indeed, 
extend  his  observation  and  say  that  in  England  it  is  often 
our  habit — especially  in  musical  comedies — to  laugh  at 
serious  things.  But,  according  to  Dumas,  the  only  right 
attitude  is  to  laugh  at  things  which  are  not  serious,  and 
which  have  no  pretension  to  be  serious.  When  we  are 
face  to  face  with  a  grave  social  danger,  it  is  a  very  curious 
sort  of  wisdom  which  dismisses  such  subjects  with  a  laugh. 
There  is,  of  course,  a  touch  of  pedantry  in  an  observation 
like  this,  and  there  was  certainly  a  good  deal  of  pedantry 
in  Dumas'  didactic  attitude.  Nevertheless,  there  is  solid 
truth  beneath,  which  is  very  applicable  to  our  modern 
audiences  in  England. 

If  we  go  back  a  certain  number  of  years,  to  the  time,  for 
instance,  when  The  Profligate  was  produced,  or  to  the  time 
when  Ibsen's  plays  were  first  represented  in  our  capital, 
we  find  that  the  common  attitude  of  average  people  was 
one  of  shocked  resentment.  "  The  problem  play  "  was 
looked  at  with  open  abhorrence,  as  though  it  were  an 
accursed  thing,  revolutionary  and  immoral.  Indeed, 
every  serious  effort  made  by  the  realist  to  represent  life 
in  plain,  undisguised  fashion  was  regarded,  and  is  still 
regarded  in  many  quarters,  as  savouring  of  impiety. 
Those  who  adopt  such  an  attitude  have  certainly  one 
justification.  They  point  out  that  the  playhouse  is  open 
to  a  very  mixed  public,  of  very  different  ages,  and  that  it 
is  wrong,  or  at  all  events  highly  injudicious  to  put  on 
the  stage  problem  plays  which  might  be  an  offence  to 
the  youthful  and  immature.  There  is  a  further  point  also, 
which  is  somewhat  open  to  controversy,  but  which  is 
advanced  by  those  who  desire  to  keep  serious  discussion 
about  life  and  morals  away  from  the  boards.  There  is 
all  the  difference,  we  are  told,  between  what  is  read  on  the 
printed  page  and  what  is  enacted  before  our  eyes  by  living 
characters.  The  second  is  supposed  to  make  a  far  deeper 


182    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

impression  than  the  first,  and  therefore  the  enacted  scene, 
if  in  any  sense  it  is  unpleasant,  is  likely  to  do  more  mischief 
in  proportion  to  its  vivid  and  lively  character.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  dogmatise  on  a  point  like  this,  because  it  depends 
largely  upon  the  individual  whether  a  stronger  impression 
is  created  by  a  story  or  a  play.  But  the  other  point  of 
objection  proceeds  on  an  assumption  which  no  lover  of 
drama  can  possibly  concede.  It  assumes  that  a  play  is  a 
mere  entertainment,  possessed  of  no  serious  dignity  in 
itself,  but  only  a  sheer  matter  of  amusement.  In  other 
words,  it  assumes  that  dramatic  art  is  not  art  at  all,  because, 
directly  we  think  of  it,  no  art,  whether  painting,  or  sculp- 
ture, or  literature,  can  be  regulated  in  accordance  with  the 
age  or  immaturity  of  the  public  to  whom  it  is  presented. 
You  do  not  ask  your  painter  to  remember  that  a  child  may 
look  at  his  picture,  nor  do  you  ask  your  Hardy s  and  Mere- 
diths to  remember  that  their  pages  may  be  perused  by 
young  and  sensitive  persons. 

The  fact  is  that  a  good  deal  of  ambiguity  surrounds  the 
use  of  such  words  as  "  the  immoral,"  as  applied  to  stage 
plays  and  the  theatre.  The  very  same  critics  who  object 
to  the  problem  play  appear  to  have  no  objection  when 
similar  subjects  are  treated  with  easy  wit  and  from  a  comical 
standpoint  by  the  writers  of  musical  comedy.  What  is 
it  which  should  strictly  be  called  "  the  immoral "  ?  Im- 
morality consists,  obviously,  in  putting  people  wrong  about 
the  relations  of  virtue  and  vice.  It  consists  in  adorning 
vice  with  seductive  colours,  in  hiding  the  ugliness  of  the 
corrupt,  in  adopting  little  affectations  of  worldliness  or 
wit  in  the  effort  to  screen  from  the  public  gaze  the  real 
misery  of  a  decadent  civilisation.  Or,  again,  when  we 
have  to  treat  with  the  actual  conditions  which  obtain  in 
this  world  of  ours,  it  is  plainly  immoral  to  ignore  the  law  of 
cause  and  effect.  To  pretend,  for  instance,  that  vice  has 
no  consequences,  that  everything  can  be  put  right,  that 
plenary  forgiveness  waits  on  repentance  and  remorse,  is 
immoral.  It  is  possible  for  human  creatures  to  forgive, 
and  in  some  rare  cases  it  is  even  possible  for  them  to  forget. 
But  Nature  never  forgives,  and  no  tears  can  wipe  out  the 
social  effects  of  crime.  To  confuse  the  public  on  points  like 
these,  to  present  them  with  a  false  theory,  is,  indeed,  an 
immoral  thing.  But  how  can  it  be  called  immoral  to  see 
some  danger  ahead  and  warn  people  of  the  enormous 
importance  of  avoiding  it?  How  can  it  be  immoral  to 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  183 

observe  men  and  women  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and 
to  try  to  pull  them  back  ?  The  man  who  engages  on  a 
task  like  this  cannot  be  called  immoral,  even  though  he  may 
have  to  use  very  plain  and  ugly  terms  in  acquitting  himself 
of  his  disagreeable  task. 

This,  I  take  it,  is  the  defence  of  realism ;  its  justification 
in  the  face  of  its  numerous  critics.  There  may  be  things 
to  be  said  on  the  other  side.  Sometimes  the  realist  may 
be  like  the  satirist,  and  some  satirists  appear  to  have  a 
predilection  for  ugly  things.  But  that  hardly  touches  the 
main  centre  of  realism  as  we  find  it  in  drama.  Its  chief 
quality  is  to  be  absolutely  fearless  and  ruthless  in  the 
exposure  of  all  that  is  harmful,  rotten,  degrading,  just  as 
equally  it  should  be  its  clear  duty  to  set  forth  all  that  is 
helpful,  stimulating,  salutary.  If  realists  are  fonder  of 
the  first  duty  than  the  second,  their  excuse  is  that  there 
is  much  necessary  spade-work  to  be  done  in  removing  the 
evil  before  we  can  even  hope  to  see  the  good.  Besides,  it  is 
a  melancholy  fact  that  the  good  is,  from  the  dramatic 
standpoint,  not  rarely  the  uninteresting.  The  true  apology 
of  the  realist,  however,  is  to  be  found  in  his  passionate 
desire  for  truth — truth  at  all  costs,  his  equally  passionate 
hatred  of  all  hypocrisy  and  sham,  his  zeal  to  anchor  himself 
on  solid  facts  and  to  refuse  to  care  whether  he  gives  pain 
or  discomfort  to  men  and  women  who  would  rather  live 
in  a  fool's  paradise.  The  best  part  of  the  influence  of 
Ibsen  on  the  modern  drama  is  to  be  found  in  his  clear 
promulgation  of  the  necessity  for  truth.  This  point  we 
shall  have  an  opportunity  of  observing  presently. 

In  April,  1889,  when  The  Profligate  was  produced,  Ibsen's 
influence  on  English  dramatists  had  not  yet  begun.  Indeed, 
clear  traces  of  its  influence  are  only  discoverable  in  1895, 
when  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith  was  seen  on  the  boards. 
But  the  impulse  to  veracity,  the  resolute  desire  to  study 
human  nature,  and  especially  to  discover  the  effects  on 
that  human  nature  of  a  certain  course  of  conduct  more  or 
less  deliberately  and  recklessly  pursued — these  are  the 
signs  which  prove  to  us  that  Pinero's  The  Profligate  was 
in  truth  a  drama  of  realism.  The  real  change  can  hardly 
be  better  seen  than  in  the  treatment  of  the  principal 
character.  That  a  human  being  is  to  a  very  large  extent 
a  slave  of  his  habits  is  adequately  recognised  in  the  play. 
In  other  words,  we  see  the  first  beginnings  of  the  doctrine 
of  determinism.  If  a  man  acts  from  motives,  and  if  the 


184    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

motives  are  in  their  turn  automatically  suggested  by  a  type 
of  conduct  deliberately  pursued  through  several  years, 
then  in  the  case  of  human  action  we  get  as  much  certainty 
of  sequence  between  cause  and  effect  as  we  do  in  external 
nature.  Given  the  antecedents,  the  consequents  will 
follow.  Given  the  motives  supplied  by  the  past  life,  and 
a  man's  action  is  inevitable.  Or,  to  put  the  matter  in  a 
concrete  case  where  its  immediate  pertinence  is  easily 
seen,  given  a  vicious  career,  then  the  ordinary  and  habitual 
conduct  of  the  man  at  each  successive  episode  or  incident 
in  his  life  will  be  vicious.  I  lay  stress  on  the  point  because 
here  is  the  commencement  of  a  scientific  psychology  quite 
as  much  as  an  illustration  of  realism  on  the  stage. 

Dunstan  Renshaw  is  a  profligate — not,  observe,  merely 
an  ordinary  "  man  of  the  world,"  as  we  call  it,  but  one  who 
has  done  definite  acts  which  stamp  his  nature,  especially 
in  his  relations  with  Janet  Preece.  Dunstan  Renshaw 
falls  in  love  with  Leslie  Brudenell,  and  in  the  first  moments 
of  emotional  excitement  and  expansion  he  declares  to  his 
friend  that  the  companionship  of  a  pure  woman  is  a  revela- 
tion to  him.  "  She  seemed,"  he  tells  Murray,  "  to  take  me 
by  the  hand  and  to  lead  me  out  of  darkness  into  the  light." 
All  his  high-flown  language  is  perfectly  explicable  in  a  man 
who  had,  apparently,  lived  on  his  nerves  and  who  was 
capable  of  intense  moments  of  feeling.  But  what  does  not 
follow — what,  indeed,  is  in  the  highest  sense  improbable 
— is  that  any  radical  change  in  character  can  be  thus 
effected.  Let  us  even  suppose  that  such  a  sudden  con- 
version were  possible — which  is  granting  a  good  deal  more 
than  the  scientific  psychologist  would  allow — there  is 
always  the  terrible  past,  which  is  never  buried  but  is  always 
starting  into  fresh  and  vivid  reality.  How  can  a  man  like 
Dunstan  Renshaw,  merely  because  he  marries  a  pure 
woman,  wipe  out  his  past  ?  The  past  has  "  overtaken 
him,"  he  says  in  one  excited  utterance.  "  You  know  what 
my  existence  has  been;  I  am  in  deadly  fear;  I  dread  the 
visit  of  a  stranger  or  the  sight  of  strange  handwriting,  and 
in  my  sleep  I  dream  that  I  am  muttering  into  Leslie's  ear 
the  truth  against  myself." 

Of  course,  his  past  sins  find  him  out,  as  his  friend  Murray 
had  prophesied.  The  whole  pitiful  history  of  Janet  Preece 
comes  to  the  light,  and  looks  all  the  uglier  because  by  the 
use  of  the  long  arm  of  coincidence  Leslie's  brother  Wilfrid 
has  loved  Janet.  Ah,  you  say,  but  the  woman  can  forgive  : 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  185 

Leslie  is  a  good  woman  !  It  is  true  that  she  can  forgive, 
but  she  can  hardly  forget ;  and,  even  if  she  did,  how  does 
this  help  Dunstan  Renshaw,  who  finds  it  impossible  to 
forget  ?  In  other  words,  the  past  cannot  be  obliterated 
by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  and  it  is  the  intimate  and  deadly 
quality  of  all  sins  that  they  leave  permanent  traces  on  the 
man  and  woman  who  have  committed  them. 

"  And  having  tasted  stolen  honey 
You  can't  buy  innocence  for  money." 

We  can  understand  how  new  a  thing  in  English  drama 
was  this  ruthless  treatment  of  a  grave  problem,  when  we 
discover  that  owing  to  the  solicitations  of  John  Hare,  the 
only  true,  as  well  as  artistic,  end  of  this  play  was  changed. 
John  Hare  was  guided  by  the  popular  prejudice  in  favour 
of  a  happy  ending,  and  he  therefore  besought  the  dramatist 
to  soften  down  the  terrible  conclusion  into  something  wholly 
unreal  and  artificial,  which  should  send  the  spectators  away 
in  a  happier  frame  of  mind.  Well,  it  is  an  old-established 
prejudice  in  theatrical  audiences  to  desire  happy  endings. 
Even  Aristotle  recognised  the  fact.  But  such  exhibitions 
of  human  weakness  do  not  alter  the  stern  facts  of  life; 
they  only  proclaim  aloud  the  hopeless  divergence  between 
popular  art  and  an  art  based  on  psychology  and  science. 
There  are  some  problems  that  cannot  be  solved  by  tears  or 
forgiveness.  What  sort  of  married  life  was  possible  for 
Dunstan  Renshaw  and  Leslie  ?  The  dramatist  cut  the 
Gordian  knot  by  making  the  hero  kill  himself,  for  in  no  other 
fashion  probably  can  a  dramatist  bring  home  to  those  who 
see  his  plays  the  dreadful  consequence  of  certain  crimes. 
But  if  we  want  to  see  what  is  the  result  of  marriages  of  this 
kind,  we  cannot  do  better  than  turn  to  one  of  the  works  of 
the  Norwegian  dramatist,  Ibsen.  Ghosts  is  not  a  pleasant 
play,  but  it  conveys  a  tremendous  moral.  In  the  course 
of  the  story  we  discover  that  Mrs.  Alving's  husband  is  a 
profligate  of  a  type  absolutely  comparable  with  Dunstan 
Renshaw.  For  various  reasons,  including  social  and 
external  decency,  she  determines  to  make  the  best  of  it 
and  go  on  living  with  the  man  as  if  he  were  a  sort  of  saint 
instead  of  a  blackguard.  Conventional  morality  requires 
that  a  wife  should  go  on  living  with  her  husband  whatever 
he  may  be  guilty  of — such  is  the  moral  of  Pastor  Manders. 
But  it  is  exactly  this  worship  of  humbug  and  pretence  which 


186    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  true  moralist  reprobates  in  the  severest  terms.  Ibsen's 
Ghosts  is  generally  considered  as  a  sort  of  sequel  to  Ibsen's 
Doll's  House — it  is  equally  a  sequel  to  Pinero's  The  Profli- 
gate. Why  Nora  is  justified  in  running  away  from  her  home 
is  because  in  certain  conditions  life  becomes  impossible  for 
a  married  pair.  Why  Dunstan  Renshaw  commits  suicide 
is  because  certain  sins  are  never  forgiven  or  forgotten.  If 
we  choose  to  disregard  these  realities  the  next  generation 
will  suffer.  "  The  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  and  the 
children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge."  The  son  of  the  profligate 
Councillor  Alving  ends  by  being  a  helpless  idiot,  crying 
for  the  sunshine. 

It  does  not  follow,  of  course,  that  The  Profligate  is  in 
itself  a  good  play,  or  even  a  good  example  of  dramatic 
realism.  It  is  worth  while  looking  at  this  point  for  a  mo- 
ment, because  it  will  throw  light  on  our  subject  from  another 
quarter.  What  are  the  obvious  defects  of  The  Profligate  ? 
We  notice  a  certain  crudeness  in  the  composition  and  con- 
struction. If  you  look  at  the  opening  scene  of  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  you  will  find  one  of  the  most  admirable 
examples  that  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  has  ever  given  us  of 
what  is  technically  called  "  exposition."  The  dinner  party 
given  by  Aubrey  Tanqueray  to  his  friends  reveals  in  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world  the  story  in  which  we  are 
to  be  interested,  and  the  clever  manner  in  which  Paula  is 
herself  introduced  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  gives  us  a  very 
necessary  sight  of  the  heroine  who  is  to  play  so  fatal  a  part 
in  Aubrey  Tanqueray' s  destiny.  The  Profligate  commences 
with  a  conversation  between  Hugh  Murray,  Renshaw' s 
friend,  and  Lord  Dangars,  which  is  by  no  means  so  happy. 
Moreover,  in  carrying  out  the  intrigue  there  is  a  decided 
lack  of  naturalness,  or  rather  of  inevitableness.  Every 
play  of  the  sort  must  invoke  the  aid  of  coincidence,  because 
in  presenting  a  little  picture,  foreshortened  and  concen- 
trated, of  a  complete  and  rounded-off  story,  the  playwright 
must  be  permitted  to  use  all  the  expedients  which  we  recog- 
nise to  be  of  the  nature  of  accidents.  But  the  use  of  coinci- 
dence in  The  Profligate  goes  beyond  all  bounds.  It  is 
necessary,  of  course,  that  Leslie,  wife  of  Dunstan  Renshaw, 
should  come  face  to  face  with  Janet  Preece,  who  has  been 
her  husband's  victim.  But  the  mechanism  which  produces 
this  result  is  decidedly  arbitrary,  if  not  far-fetched.  Hazard 
and  accident  play  an  overwhelming  part.  Accident  brings 
Janet  to  Paddington  Station  at  the  same  time  as  Leslie 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  187 

and  her  brother;  accident  decides  that  Leslie's  school 
friend,  Miss  Stonehay,  should  take  Janet  as  a  travelling 
companion;  accident,  once  more,  brings  the  Stonehay 
family  precisely  to  the  environs  of  Florence,  and  to  the 
villa  in  which  the  Renshaws  are  living;  and  finally,  there 
is  not  so  much  nature  as  artifice  in  the  arrangement  by 
which  Janet  stays  with  Leslie  at  the  villa  instead  of  going 
away  as  she  naturally  would — through  feelings  of  sheer 
delicacy.  There  is  another  side  on  which  The  Profligate 
is  open  to  criticism.  The  danger  of  all  realistic  plays  is 
that  they  are  apt  to  tumble  unaware  into  melodrama.  I 
mean  by  melodrama  an  exaggeration  in  the  drawing  of 
character,  the  sacrifice  of  a  good  deal  of  probability  in 
order  to  accentuate  the  situation,  and  a  noticeable  want  of 
connection  between  the  motives  and  acts  of  the  personages 
involved.  The  character  of  Dunstan  Renshaw  shows  many 
signs  of  exaggeration.  His  raison  d'etre  in  the  piece  is  to 
represent  a  profligate  and  a  seducer,  and  a  man  who  has 
lived  the  particular  life  that  he  is  supposed  to  have  lived, 
and  who,  even  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  indulges  in  a 
stupid  carouse,  is  hardly  capable  of  those  finer  shades  of 
feeling,  of  remorse  and  self-chastisement,  which  he  betrays 
towards  the  end  of  the  play.  So,  too,  Leslie's  evolution 
is  decidedly  abrupt  from  the  innocence  of  the  earlier  stage 
to  the  knowledge  of  life  after  one  month's  tete-a-tete  with 
her  husband. 

How  different  is  the  masterly  treatment  which  we  come 
across  in  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  !  We  understand  the 
situation  from  the  very  beginning.  The  characters  are  not 
exaggerated,  and  we  see  them  developing  before  our  eyes 
on  lines  which  we  recognise  as  essentially  probable  and  true. 
The  personality  of  Aubrey  Tanqueray  may  be  a  little 
obscure  here  and  there,  but  Paula  is  an  admirable  creation, 
whose  conduct  throughout  is  what  we  might  have  expected 
of  a  woman  in  such  circumstances  and  subject  to  such 
temptations;  while,  as  in  the  case  of  Greek  tragedy,  we 
are  dimly  aware  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last  of  a  Fate 
hanging  over  all  the  characters  and  dooming  them  to  their 
eventual  ruin.  There  is,  it  is  true,  one  coincidence  which 
may  strike  some  observers  as  strange.  It  is  the  accident 
which  brings  back  Ardale,  the  accepted  lover  of  Ellean,  into 
the  presence  of  the  heroine,  with  whom  he  had  such  close 
relations  in  the  past.  Nevertheless  here,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
the  coincidence  is  not  in  any  sense  surprising  or  unnatural, 


188    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

given  the  past  circumstances  of  Paula's  life  and  her  numer- 
ous adventures  before  she  became  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  It  is 
because  of  its  fine  theatrical  execution,  because  it  gives 
us  living  figures  whose  dispositions  and  character  inevitably 
work  up  to  the  denouement,  and  because  it  does  not  slide 
over  into  melodrama,  that  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  is, 
so  far  as  I  can  judge,  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  modern 
English  stage. 

For  what  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  supreme  excellence  of  a 
play  which  purports  to  deal  with  real  events  and  real  charac- 
ters, true  to  the  country  in  which  they  live  and  explicable 
on  proper  psychological  grounds?  I  think  the  great  test 
is  this.  Do  we  look  upon  the  enacted  drama  as  a  mere 
spectacle,  or  do  we  find  ourselves  part  of  it  ?  Are  we  merely 
sitting  as  spectators  in  a  theatre  divided  from  the  stage  by 
the  footlights,  living  our  own  lives  while  the  people  on  the 
boards  live  theirs  ?  Or  are  we  transported  in  very  deed 
into  the  enacted  scene,  as  though  it  were  part  of  the  life 
which  for  the  time  we  ourselves  are  leading  ?  A  great  play, 
which  greatly  deals  with  supreme  issues,  has  the  power  to 
make  us  forget  that  we  are  in  a  theatre  at  all,  or  that 
there  is  any  distinction  between  us  and  the  actors.  In 
other  words,  we  live  in  the  play,  and  do  not  merely  look  at 
it.  But  how  rarely  do  we  undergo  an  experience  like  this  ! 
Assuredly,  it  is  impossible  in  plays  of  romance ;  it  is  equally 
impossible  in  melodramas  or  farces.  But  the  supreme 
virtue  of  a  drama  of  realism  is  that  now  and  again  it  has 
this  strange  power  of  transporting  us  out  of  ourselves.  The 
audience  becomes  a  part  of  the  play.  Every  one,  perhaps, 
will  have  his  own  instances  to  give  of  an  experience  of  this 
kind  :  for  myself  I  felt  it  when  I  first  saw  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,  and  again,  to  take  quite  a  modern  instance, 
when  I  saw  Hindle  Wakes. 

This  seems  a  fit  opportunity  for  saying  something  of  the 
predominant  influence  of  Ibsen.  I  have  called  it  pre- 
dominant because  it  seems  a  mere  matter  of  fact  that  since 
the  vogue  of  the  Norwegian  dramatist  most  of  the  play- 
writers  of  England  have  either  altered  their  methods  or 
their  style.  But  it  is  necessary  to  look  at  the  matter  a 
little  closer,  because  the  influence  which  a  man  exerts  on 
the  literature  of  another  country  is  a  somewhat  intangible 
thing,  and  we  are  only  too  apt  to  go  wrong  as  to  its  range 
and  quality.  The  main  influence  of  Ibsen  has,  undoubtedly, 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  189 

been  in  the  direction  of  realism,  defined  in  the  sense  in  which 
I  have  all  along  tried  to  use  it.  Realism  means  above  all 
else  a  devotion  to  the  bare  and  explicit  truth  of  human  life 
and  human  character,  and  the  avoidance  of  all  romantic 
or  poetic  devices  for  obscuring  the  main  issues.  No  sooner 
had  Ibsen  begun  to  compose  his  social  dramas  than  he 
found  himself  immersed  in  a  task — evidently  congenial  to 
him — of  tearing  down  the  social  conventions,  exposing 
the  social  hypocrisies  which  disguise  the  face  of  reality  and 
truth.  Nearly  every  one  of  his  social  plays  is  an  exposure  + 
of  humbug  of  some  sort.  Now  it  is  the  case  of  some  ship- 
owner, who  recklessly  sends  a  rotten  old  hulk  to  sea  for 
reasons  purely  commercial ;  and  now  it  is  the  more  intimate 
relationship  between  men  and  women  in  the  married  state, 
which  seems  to  the  dramatist  to  require  careful  analysis 
and  elucidation.  Or,  again,  it  is  the  fetish  of  mundane 
respectability  at  which  Ibsen  will  gird.  He  will  show  us  a 
Pastor  Manders  trying  to  persuade  Mrs.  Alving  to  go  on 
living  with  her  profligate  husband  for  the  sake  of  external 
decency ;  or  else  will  paint  for  us  the  character  of  a  sincere 
enthusiast  for  the  truth  who  wishes  to  purify  a  town's 
water  supply,  together  with  all  the  fatal  consequences  in 
his  case,  the  loss  of  personal  prestige,  the  accusations  of 
treachery,  the  desertion  of  all  his  friends.  These  are  the 
various  themes  which  Ibsen  takes  up  in  The  Pillars  of 
Society,  in  A  DoWs  House,  in  Ghosts,  and  in  An  Enemy  of 
the  People.  And  then,  by  a  sudden  change  of  outlook,  in 
order  to  prove  that  he  cares  more  for  truth  than  for  theory, 
Ibsen  writes  his  strange  play  The  Wild  Duck,  the  whole 
purport  of  which  is  to  show  that  a  fanatical  devotion  to 
truth  may  cause  just  as  much  injury  as  the  studious  and 
calculated  suppression  of  truth.  What  is  wrong  with 
society  is  the  reign  of  conventional  ethics,  supported  by 
such  interested  apostles  of  things  as  they  are  as  clergymen 
and  business  men.  There  are  many  dark  corners  which 
ought  to  be  looked  into  in  this  matter.  Nevertheless,  like 
everything  else,  truth  is  a  difficult  goddess  to  worship, 
and  the  intoxicated  fanatic  who  devotes  himself  to  her 
cause  will  often  do  her  graver  harm  than  even  the  conven- 
tional liar.  Such  seems  to  be  the  lesson  of  The  Wild  Duck, 
albeit  that  it  is  a  play  which  has  always  caused  a  certain 
searching  of  heart  among  the  disciples  of  Ibsen.  But 
the  general  impulse  of  striving  to  attain  to  the  exact  and 
veritable  fact  remains  as  one  of  the  chief  heritages  which 


190    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Ibsen  communicated  to  the  dramatic  world,  and  it  is  easy 
to  see  in  this  respect  how  great  has  been  his  influence 
amongst  modern  playwrights. 

I  pass  to  another  point — the  question  of  dramatic  con- 
struction. Ibsen  is  a  master  of  dramatic  craftsmanship. 
He  certainly  learnt  some  lessons  in  the  school  of  Scribe  in 
Paris,  but  he  applied  and  transformed  the  piece  bien  faite 
in  his  own  fashion,  so  that,  externally  at  all  events,  an 
Ibsen  play  seems  to  differ  toto  ccelo  from  the  ordinary 
pieces  produced  on  the  French  stage.  In  some  respects 
Ibsen  has  an  almost  classical  severity  and  restraint  of  form. 
His  Ghosts  is,  technically,  like  a  Greek  tragedy,  so  sure 
is  the  progression  of  its  incidents,  so  close  is  the  interaction 
between  cause  and  effect.  A  Doll's  House  might  possibly 
commend  itself  to  Euripides,  although,  of  course,  the  Greek 
dramatist  would  have  solved  the  problem  in  his  usual 
fashion  by  introducing  some  god  or  goddess  to  cut  the 
Gordian  knot.  A  method  of  which  Ibsen  was  especially 
fond  in  his  plays  was  what  has  been  called  the  retrospective 
method.  You  start  your  plot  on  the  very  eve  of  a  denoue- 
ment, as  close  as  you  can  to  the  tragic  issue.  Then  you 
make  your  characters  expound  the  past  in  a  series  of  ani- 
mated dialogues,  so  that  when  the  conclusion  is  reached  you 
have  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  personages 
who  bring  it  about.1  Ibsen  shows  a  wonderful  skill  in  the 
fashion  in  which  he  makes  the  personages  of  the  drama 
reveal  their  past  actions  and  also  themselves,  to  which  we 
may  add  the  obvious  fact  that  his  conversations  themselves 
are  conducted  with  a  sense  of  actuality  which  makes  them 
extraordinarily  vivid.  You  can  read  a  play  by  Ibsen  with 
almost  as  much  pleasurable  interest  as  you  can  witness  it 
on  the  stage,  because  there  is  not  only  something  easy 
and  natural  in  the  sentences  put  into  the  mouths  of  the 
various  characters,  but  there  is  also  a  distinct  economy 
of  effect.  The  sentences  themselves  have  weight  and 
importance  because  they  so  clearly  lead  up  to  the  issue. 

The  only  thing  which  interferes  with  this  triumphant 
actuality  is  Ibsen's  increasing  tendency  as  he  grew  to  his 
later  years  to  use  symbols  and  images,  sometimes  of  a  very 
vague  and  elusive  character.  The  symbol  of  the  Wild 
Duck  is  comparatively  easy,  for  it  very  fairly  indicates  both 
the  character  and  the  fate  of  the  girl  heroine,  Hedwig.  In 

1  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  uses  this  method  in  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession. 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  191 

The  Lady  from  the  Sea  we  have  advanced  a  step  further  in 
the  symbolic  direction.  After  all,  the  Wild  Duck  was  a 
mere  symbol,  subordinate  to  the  plot  itself,  but  in  The 
Lady  from  the  Sea  the  idea  of  the  play  itself  is  wholly  sym- 
bolic. The  problem  of  married  life  is  not  discussed  as 
it  had  been,  for  instance,  in  A  Doll's  House,  but  is  merged  in 
a  sort  of  allegory  suggestive  of  the  romance  of  love.  Plays 
like  Rosmersholm  and  Hedda  Gabler  belong  to  the  earlier 
type,  but  when  we  come  to  The  Master  Builder  and  Little 
Eyolf,  and  especially  to  the  last,  When  We  Dead  Awaken, 
symbolism  is  once  more  in  full  swing;  and,  indeed,  in 
When  We  Dead  Awaken  it  represents,  or  perhaps  disguises, 
a  definite  weakening  in  dramatic  power.  According  to 
the  French  critic,  M.  Filon,  however,  it  is  just  this  symbolism 
or  allegorical  element  in  Ibsen  which  makes  him  congenial 
to  Anglo-Saxon  and  Teutonic  tastes,  while  it  renders  it 
much  more  difficult  for  Parisian  audiences  and  the  Latin 
races  to  understand  him.  There  is,  undoubtedly,  a  strong 
strain  of  mysticism  in  all  Northern  peoples,  Teutonic, 
Scandinavian,  and  Anglo-Saxon,  but  in  the  representations 
of  Ibsen's  plays  in  England  I  have  never  been  able  to 
detect  that  Ibsen  owes  such  popularity  as  he  has  gained 
to  his  mystical  elements.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  never 
has  been  popular  in  the  widest  sense  in  England,  and  cer- 
tainly the  performance  of  plays  like  A  Master  Builder  and 
Little  Eyolf  has  not  enabled  English  spectators  to  welcome 
Ibsen  as  akin  to  them  in  essence  and  spirit.  Obviously, 
too,  the  symbolic  tendency  interferes  in  no  slight  measure 
with  the  realistic  tendency  which  belongs  to  the  best  work 
of  Ibsen.  Symbolism  may  be  valuable  inasmuch  as  it 
suggests  that  realism  is  by  no  means  the  last  word  in  dra- 
matic art,  but  it  is  not  a  phase  in  the  great  Norwegian's 
work  which  has  lent  itself  to  much  successful  imitation  on 
the  part  of  his  followers  and  admirers. 

There  is  another  aspect  of  Ibsen's  work,  however,  which 
deserves  attention,  especially  as  connected  with  modern 
movements  in  social  and  intellectual  life.1  I  refer  to  the 
extraordinary  prominence  which  he  has  given  to  women  in 
his  dramas,  and  especially  to  women  as  representing  the 
individualistic  idea  as  against  State  action  or  collectivism. 
Ibsen,  undoubtedly,  thought,  as  most  of  his  social  dramas 

1  Cf.  Henrik  Ibsen.  A  Critical  Study,  by  R.  Ellis  Roberts  (Martin 
Seeker),  a  book  of  no  little  value  to  the  student  of  drama. 


192    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

prove,  that  all  State  action,  as  such,  whether  exercised 
through  a  compact  majority  or  through  police  or  other 
agencies,  is  entirely  harmful  and  crippling  because  it  puts 
chains  upon  the  individual.     As  against  society  the  indi- 
vidual is  always  right.     Now,  who  are  the  great  individual- 
ists ?     Women,  undoubtedly,  who  not  only  attack  problems 
in  their  own  fashion,  but  instinctively  resist  the  pressure 
of  laws  imposed  upon  them,  as  it  seems  to  their  intelligence, 
in  an  entirely  arbitrary  manner.     Hence  the  importance  of 
women  in  Ibsen's  plays,  and  hence,  too,  the  idea,  for  which, 
indeed,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said,  that  Ibsen  was  the 
great  feminist  writer,  doing  more  for  the  cause  of  women 
both  as  poet  and  artist  than  any  thinker  had  done  before 
him.     It  is  not  quite  certain,  however,  whether  the  Nor- 
wegian  dramatist   really   liked   this   identification   of  his 
views  with  those  of  the  ordinary  feminist  platform.     He 
certainly  did  not  keenly  support  any  women's  movements, 
and,  apparently,  he  was  annoyed  that  his  play  A  Doll's 
House  should  have  been  interpreted  as  a  tract  for  feminism. 
But  it  remains  true  that  to  women  he  assigned  all  the 
virtues  the  possession  of  which  he  denied  to  men.     The 
love  of  truth,  a  clear  perception  of  what  is  reasonable,  a  fine 
dose  of  enthusiasm,  immense  energy,  all  these  things  are 
attributed  to  women  in  his  plays,  whereas,  on  the  contrary, 
the  men   exhibit  the   mean   vices — stupidity,   selfishness, 
sometimes  cowardice,  sometimes  also  rascality  and  a  reckless 
greed.     There  are  exceptions,  of  course.     Hedda  Gabler  is  a 
woman  entirely  devoid  of  conscience,  while  Dr.  Stockmann 
is  a  fine  example  of  the  well-meaning  moralist  who  pursues 
his  love  of  truth  even  though  society  be  shattered.     So,  too, 
Dr.  Wangel  is  a  husband  entirely  praiseworthy,  but  I  know 
of  hardly  any  other  husband  in  the  Ibsenite  drama  of  whom 
the  same  thing  can  be  said.     The  women,  I  say,  have  all  the 
virtues,  or,  at  all  events,  all  the  virtues  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  Norwegian  dramatist.    Many  examples  occur.    There 
is  Nora,  for  instance,  in  A  Doll's  House,  who  cannot  endure 
a  married  life  which  is  not  founded  on  respect  for  individual 
duties,  as  against  her  husband  Torvald,  who  only  desires 
to  hush  up  scandal.     Or  there  is  Rebecca  in  Rosmersholm, 
a  far  finer  character  than  the  unhappy  Rosmer,  much 
braver  and  more  resolute  in  her  determination  to  save  her 
soul   through   love.      Or   in   The    Master    Builder,   while 
Solness  seems  only  inspired  by  the  single  idea  that  somehow 
or  other  he  must  keep  back  the  advancing  tide   of  the 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  193 

younger  generation,  Hilda  is  inspired  by  a  much  more 
healthy  ambition  in  trying  to  restore  to  Solness  his  earlier 
dreams.  Or,  once  more,  in  the  last  of  the  Ibsen  plays, 
When  We  Dead  Awaken,  it  is  Irene  who  has  truth  and 
right  on  her  side,  as  against  the  egotist  Rubek,  who  only 
desires  to  make  use  of  human  personalities  in  the  selfish 
pursuit  of  art  for  art's  sake. 

As  we  review  these  and  many  other  instances  we  see 
that  to  Ibsen  woman  is  not  only  the  born  anarchist,  but 
that  she  is  also  justified  in  her  anarchical  views.  The 
world  is  poisoned  because  every  one  is  contented  with 
outworn  social  and  ethical  conventions.  Women  refuse 
to  be  blinded  by  the  dust  of  these  antique  superstitions; 
they  are  on  the  side  of  freedom,  independence,  self-realisa- 
tion, the  only  ideals  at  which  human  life  ought  to  aim,  the 
only  ideals  which  Ibsen,  at  all  events,  chooses  to  glorify. 
Of  course,  Ibsen  was  very  one-sided  in  views  of  this  kind. 
The  progress  of  humanity  depends  on  two  movements  which 
must  go  on  side  by  side.  One  is  the  impulse  towards 
change;  the  other  is  the  steady  drag  towards  stability. 
To  prevent  a  given  social  state  from  petrification  there  must 
be  constant  revolts,  a  continuous  series  of  fresh  and  lively 
efforts  to  strike  out  new  paths.  But  in  order  that  a  social 
state  may  exist  at  all,  the  newer  impulses  must  be  harmon- 
ised with  the  older  structure.  Order  is  as  necessary  for 
the  world  as  progress.  Ibsen's  ideal  of  self-realisation,  if 
carried  to  its  logical  results,  means  the  destruction  of  sta- 
bility for  the  sake  of  a  few  hare-brained  individuals.  Nor 
yet  is  self-realisation  to  be  distinguished  in  the  last  resort 
from  a  greedy  and  assertive  selfishness. 

In  his  influence  on  the  world  of  drama,  however,  Ibsen's 
fondness  not  only  for  drawing  women  but  for  endowing  them  • 
with  energetic  qualities  has  played  no  small  part  in  the 
evolution  of  feminist  ideas.  In  all  modern  realistic  work 
whether  you  observe  it  in  the  plays  of  Pinero  or  of  George 
Bernard  Shaw,  the  woman  has  attained  a  prominence  and 
importance  far  removed  from  the  older  dramatic  concep- 
tion of  women  either  as  a  toy  or  as  a  goddess  or  an  idol  to 
be  worshipped  in  a  shrine.  None  of  us  in  this  modern 
generation  are  likely  to  forget  either  Mr.  Shaw's  Candida 
or  the  same  dramatist's  Ann  Whitefield.  The  first  is  to 
me,  I  confess,  a  somewhat  enigmatic  personage.  You 
will  remember  what  Candida,  the  excellent  wife  of  an  excel- 
lent clergyman,  dared  to  do  in  the  play  bearing  her  name. 


194    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

She  knows  that  she  is  loved  by  her  clergyman  husband; 
she  is  also  aware  that  she  is  the  object  of  a  fantastic  adora- 
tion on  the  part  of  a  young  poet,  Eugene  Marchbanks. 
She  daringly  puts  lover  and  husband  to  the  test,  and  says 
that  whoever  is  the  weaker  and  needs  her  most  will  have 
her  for  the  future.  She  plays  this  cruel  game,  although 
she  knows  that  her  stupid  common -place  self-opinionated 
husband — who,  by  the  way,  is  a  very  successful  clergyman 
— adores  her,  and  that  her  namby-pamby  sentimental 
febrile  lover  puts  her  on  a  pinnacle  as  being  much  too  great 
for  her  commonplace  surroundings.  Of  course,  the  drama- 
tist gets  out  of  his  difficulty  by  explaining  to  us  that  the 
Rev.  James  Morell  was  in  reality  the  weaker  man  who 
needed  Candida  most  of  all,  and  so  all  comes  right  in  the 
end.  But  whether  we  are  for  this  reason  to  forgive  the 
wife,  or  whether  she  is  acting  as  all  women  act  in  similar 
circumstances,  are  questions  which  the  mere  man  finds  it 
difficult  to  answer.  Mr.  Shaw's  heroines  are  not  always 
pleasant  people,  with  the  exception,  of  course,  of  Lady 
Cecily  Waynflete  in  Captain  Brassbountfs  Conversion. 
Some  of  them  are  of  the  hard  huntress  type,  like  Ann  White- 
field  in  Man  and  Superman,  who  runs  down  her  quarry  with 
magnificent  persistence  and  success.  Barbara  is  a  subtle 
conception,  subtle  and  interesting,  but  her  creator  does  not 
improve  her  character  as  the  play  proceeds.  To  compare 
the  women  of  Mr.  Shaw  with  the  women  of  Ibsen  would 
be  an  interesting  topic,  but  one  for  which,  unfortunately, 
I  have  no  space. 

The  women  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  are  very  carefully  drawn, 
and  in  this  perhaps,  once  again,  we  can  see  the  influence, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  exercised  by  Ibsen.  I  have 
already  referred  to  Leslie  Brudenell  in  The  Profligate,  and 
to  Paula  in  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  I  have  yet  to 
deal  with  the  heroine  of  The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt,  with 
The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  and  with  Iris.  With  regard 
to  Agnes  Ebbsmith,  interesting  character  as  she  undoubt- 
edly is,  there  is  perhaps  less  to  be  said  because  the  play 
in  which  she  appears  is  not  so  carefully  wrought,  or  at  all 
events  is  not  so  successful  as  the  others  of  which  mention 
has  been  made.  Still,  the  character  of  Agnes  Ebbsmith 
raises  several  most  curious  problems  which  are  worth 
studying,  quite  apart  from  the  success  or  want  of  success 
of  the  play  called  by  her  name.  There  is  a  strange  tragedy 
about  the  woman.  She  is  full  of  independence  and  spirit, 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  195 

and  without  any  doubt  she  wanted  to  be  the  companion, 
friend,  and  fellow-worker  of  Lucas  Cleeve,  with  whom  she 
had  elected  to  live.  Perhaps  Lucas  Cleeve  himself  thought 
at  one  time  that  life  was  possible  both  for  him  and  for 
Agnes  on  the  high  platonic  plane  of  companionship  and 
camaraderie.  But  because  Lucas  is  a  half-baked  creature, 
or  rather  because  he  is  merely  the  ordinary  man,  Thomme 
moyen  sensucl,  the  experiment  is  a  failure.  Agnes  is  forced, 
deliberately,  to  appeal  to  his  senses  and  lower  nature  in 
order  to  fortify  his  constancy. 

I  turn  to  The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt  and  to  Iris.  Both  the 
heroines  of  these  plays  are,  from  an  ordinary  masculine 
standpoint,  neither  sincere  nor  praiseworthy.  Yet,  on 
the  contrary,  thanks  to  Pinero's  art,  we  are  only  too 
ready  to  forgive  them  both.  We  make  excuses  for  them; 
we  say  that  circumstances  were  too  strong,  that  their 
positions  were  unendurable,  that  their  sins  ought  to  be 
forgiven.  Here  is  Theo  Fraser  in  The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt. 
She  is  married  to  a  hard,  dour  Scotsman,  Fraser  of  Locheen, 
who  will  wear  kilts  at  the  dinner  table,  and  insists  on 
having  his  deplorable  bagpipes  played  on  every  occasion. 
Well,  it  is  not  fair  to  a  sensitive  woman,  on  whose  nerves 
these  things  act  with  terrible  force.  So  she  flies  for  refuge 
to  Jack  Allingham,  and  there  is  a  scandal,  an  action  for 
divorce,  and  the  judge  gives  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
Now,  mark  what  ensued.  Fraser,  not  being  an  absolute 
ass,  says  that  they  must  go  abroad  in  order  to  get  over  the 
malevolence  of  spiteful  tongues.  He  wants  to  hush  up 
scandal  like  Torvald  in  A  Doll's  House.  Theo  resolutely 
refuses  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,  and  says,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  the  situation  must  be  faced,  and  that  they  must 
remain  in  town.  She  may  have  been  right  in  principle, 
but  the  sequel  proves  that  she  was  wrong  in  fact.  Upset 
by  her  husband's  arguments,  she  goes  once  more  to  Jack 
Allingham  in  a  half -fainting  condition;  she  drinks  cham- 
pagne on  an  empty  stomach,  and,  not  to  put  too  fine  a 
point  on  it,  she  gets  intoxicated.  In  this  condition  she 
implores  Jack  Allingham  to  run  away  with  her.  Not  a 
nice  woman  this,  and  yet,  upon  my  soul,  the  dramatist 
makes  us  forgive  her  !  Apparently  he  forgives  her  himself, 
for  he  lets  her  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  wife  of  a  worthy 
bishop,  who  is  going  to  spread  her  immaculate  reputation 
over  Theo's  peccadilloes  and  gradually  restore  her  in  the 
public  credit.  I  am  always  wondering  why  this  fine  play, 


196    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt,  has  never  been  revived.  I  suppose 
we  must  wait  until  the  National  Theatre  is  established 
before  we  can  hope  to  see  it  again.  The  first  and  second 
acts  are  masterpieces. 

But  let  us  continue  with  Iris.  Iris  Bellamy,  according 
to  her  own  account,  is  more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 
She  is  left  a  widow  at  a  very  early  age,  with  a  certain  for- 
tune, which  she  is  to  resign  if  she  marries  again.  Round 
her  are  at  least  three  men — Croker  Harrington  (who  perhaps 
does  not  count,  for  he  is  a  faithful,  dog-like  creature); 
Laurence  Trenwith,  an  impecunious  young  man,  with  whom 
she  is  sincerely  in  love ;  and  the  Mephistopheles  of  the  piece, 
Frederick  Maldonado,  a  hard,  wealthy,  masterful  financier. 
Now,  Iris  cannot  be  straight  with  any  of  these.  She  cannot 
make  up  her  mind  to  live  in  poverty  abroad  with  Laurence 
Trenwith.  Poor  Croker  hardly  enters  into  her  calcula- 
tions. Suddenly  she  is  herself  confronted  with  poverty, 
owing  to  the  ill-doings  of  a  rascally  attorney ;  and  this  is 
Maldonado' s  chance.  He  leaves  a  cheque-book  with  her, 
and  she  makes  use  of  it.  He  prepares  a  beautifully  fur- 
nished flat  for  her,  leaving  the  key  with  her,  and  eventually 
she  drifts  into  accepting  it.  Then  Trenwith  returns,  and 
she  tells  him  the  whole  story,  expecting  him  to  forgive  her. 
Immensely  hurt  at  his  refusal  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
her,  both  hurt  and  surprised,  she  is  left  to  Maldonado' s 
mercy  :  and  because  he  has  discovered  the  intrigue  between 
Iris  and  Trenwith,  she  is  finally  driven  out  into  the  streets. 
You  will  say  that  she  is  punished,  and  terribly  punished. 
It  is  quite  true.  The  point  is  that  we  are  genuinely  sorry 
for  her.  And  yet  could  there  be  a  more  worthless  woman  ? 
Was  she  wicked,  or  merely  weak  ?  We  really  cannot  say. 
Perhaps  she  was  what  Paula  was  originally  before  she  com- 
menced her  career  as  a  courtesan.  But  the  case  stands 
as  it  does  with  Sophy  Fullgarney  in  The  Gay  Lord  Quex, 
whom  the  hero  very  justly  describes  as  a  cat  which  scratches 
the  hand  that  tries  to  pet  it.  Yet  Sophy  Fullgarney 
becomes  in  the  sequel  a  quite  estimable  character,  although 
she  is  a  mean,  despicable  spy.  And  Iris,  too,  lives  in  our 
memory,  although  she  is  quite  non-moral,  perhaps  even 
basely  immoral.  Need  I  add  the  instance  of  Paula  Tanque- 
ray  ?  Did  she  ever  love  Aubrey  Tanqueray  ?  I  think  not. 
I  think  she  only  cared  for  comfort,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
living  in  a  proper  home,  of  being  respected  as  a  legitimate 
wife.  She  betrays  her  husband  at  every  point.  Capricious- 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  197 

ness  is  the  least  of  her  vices.  She  asks  her  disreputable 
friends  to  stay  with  her.  Even  if  she  had  won  the  love  of 
her  step-daughter,  Ellean,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  would  have 
known  what  to  do  with  it.  And  yet — and  yet — we  are 
more  than  a  little  inclined  to  forgive  Paula  Tanqueray, 
although  she  had  absolutely  ruined  a  good  man,  and 
brought  positive  agony  to  his  daughter.  "  There  is  a 
soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil " ;  that  is  the  dramatist's 
lesson.  Or  perhaps  it  is  only  an  illustration  of  the 
famous  text,  "  To  know  all  is  to  pardon  all."  Pinero  has 
made  us  understand  his  women,  and  though  our  judgment 
and  our  common  sense  rebel,  we  are  sympathetically 
interested  in  them,  and  inclined  to  grant  them  plenary 
absolution. 

We  have  yet  to  see  how  the  progress  of  realism  in  drama 
has  manifested  itself  among  our  latest  contemporary 
writers,  and  especially  among  such  dramatists  as  Mr. 
George  Bernard  Shaw — who  is  in  some  respects  perhaps 
too  fantastic  to  be  called  a  realist — Mr.  St.  John  Hankin, 
Mr.  Granville  Barker,  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  Mr.  Galsworthy, 
and  Mr.  Stanley  Houghton.  I  hope  in  a  subsequent  essay 
to  find  an  opportunity  of  dealing  with  some  of  the  most 
modern  developments.  In  the  present  instance  it  seemed 
worth  while  to  spend  some  little  time  over  a  period,  which 
means  more  perhaps  to  the  middle-aged  man  than  it  does 
to  the  more  youthful  of  our  contemporaries,  and  especially 
over  the  work  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  whom  this  present  age, 
a  little  fickle  and  oblivious  of  what  has  been  done  in  the 
past,  has  begun  somewhat  ungratefully  to  disparage. 

But  before  I  end,  I  must  go  back  to  a  point  which  was 
alluded  to  in  my  first  paper,  and  which  indeed  is  suggested 
by  movements  that  are  going  on  all  round  us,  both  in 
literary  and  dramatic  art.  We  have  been  living  under  the 
tyranny  of  realism  for  some  years  past,  and  in  some  respects 
I  think  the  dominion  of  realistic  modes  of  thought  has 
become  an  obsession.  If  I  confine  myself  to  what  realism 
means  in  drama,  I  should  say  that  its  tendency  is  to  lead 
us  straight  to  pessimism,  to  that  characteristically  sombre 
and  gloomy  pessimism  which  has  invaded  foreign  literatures 
even  more  than  our  own,  and  of  which  the  Russian  literature 
affords  us  admirable  specimens.  Why  should  realism  lead 
to  pessimism?  The  answer  is  quite  simple,  and  also 
instructive.  The  realistic  treatment  of  human  character 


198    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

lays  stress  on  the  individual,  his  rights,  his  claims,  his 
Borrows,  his  passions,  all  that  he  demands  of  life  and  all 
that  life  seems  to  deny  him.  Now,  despite  the  teaching  of 
Ibsen,  the  individual  is  not  always  right  as  against  society, 
nor  does  ultimate  wisdom  reside  with  the  minority  as 
against  the  majority.  The  individual  by  himself  is  a  weak 
and  feeble  thing,  and  the  enumeration  of  his  particular 
grievances  distorts  the  proper  perspective  of  human 
existence  in  general  and  depreciates  the  average  health  and 
sanity  of  the  social  state.  Reflecting  on  his  personal  woes, 
the  individual  naturally  becomes  a  pessimist;  or,  if  we 
may  put  it  in  another  way,  selfishness,  a  narrow  absorbing 
egotism,  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  At  all  events  our  realists, 
both  in  literature  and  in  drama,  exhaust  themselves  in 
denouncing  the  injustice  and  the  hopelessness  of  human 
life,  because  they  persist  in  taking  the  standpoint  of  the 
acutely  sensitive  individual  instead  of  regarding  such 

I  matters  from  an  objective  or  world  standpoint. 
One  of  the  best  ways  of  trying  to  discover  the  tendencies 
of  a  particular  movement  amongst  ourselves  is  to  see  what  is 
happening  in  foreign  literatures.  The  Russian  literature 
is  very  apt  for  this  purpose,  and,  as  we  are  aware,  modern 
Russian  literature  has  been  not  incorrectly  described  as 
"  pessimism  devoid  of  humour."  I  will  not  take  such  well- 
known  writers  as  Tolstoy,  Gorky,  Dostoieffsky.  I  will 
only  mention  one  of  the  modern  novelists,  Artzybascheff. 
A  recent  novel,  entitled  At  the  Utmost  Limit,  has  no 
other  theme  than  to  portray  the  black  night,  the  utter 
and  irremediable  senselessness  of  all  earthly  existence, 
and  to  suggest  suicide  as  the  only  panacea  for  human  ill. 
Nevertheless,  what  is  happening  even  in  Russia,  the  home 
of  pessimism  ? 1  There  is  a  school  of  younger  writers  who, 
in  reaction  from  this  state  of  things,  might  almost  be  de- 
scribed as  optimists.  Something  of  the  same  sort  has  been 
happening  among  ourselves. 

There  are  only  two  ways  of  waking  from  the  nightmare 
of  realism  when  pushed  to  its  extreme  of  egotistic  mania. 
One  is  the  way  of  symbolism,  the  way  of  dreams.  You  may 
tell  yourself  that  the  only  means  to  discover  the  mystery 
of  the  universe,  and  to  reconcile  the  contradictions  and 
disorders  of  life,  is  to  shut  your  eyes  to  the  ordinary  world 
and  throw  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  imagination  and  fancy, 
living  in  the  mystic's  paradise,  finding  an  ideal  happiness  in 
1  Written  before  the  Russian  Revolution. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  199 

a  world  within  the  four  walls  of  human  consciousness.  That 
is  what  Maeterlinck  does  in  some  of  his  plays.  Many  hints 
of  the  same  kind  of  thing  are  to  be  found  in  Ibsen,  who,  as 
his  life  progressed,  grew  to  be  more  and  more  fond  of  sym- 
bols. In  a  certain  fashion  also  the  Celtic  mode  of  thought 
of  Yeats  and  other  writers  of  the  Irish  school  affords 
another  illustration.  Mysticism  then  is  one  of  the  modes 
of  reaction,  which  come  easy  to  some  dreaming  minds,  a 
mysticism  which  may  be  ascetic  or  may  be  sensuous,  but 
which  is  at  all  events  wholly  imaginative.  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  is  the  more  hopeful  or  the  more  effective  path  to  lead 
us  out  of  our  swamp  of  despair. 

There  is  another  way.  You  may  choose  not  to  ignore  the 
evils  of  life,  but  you  may  study  them,  just  as  the  physician 
and  the  surgeon  study  all  the  morbid  growths  of  mental 
and  corporeal  life.  By  a  close  study  of  the  dreadful  foe 
you  may  in  the  end  master  the  secret  of  his  destructive 
power,  and,  perchance,  you  may  come  upon  this  discovery, 
that  the  evils  of  life  do  not  flow  from  the  nature  of  things, 
but  from  human  blindness,  from  human  selfishness,  from 
precisely  that  lack  of  cohesion  amongst  the  various  members 
of  the  human  family  which  alone  can  raise  them  to  higher 
levels  of  culture  and  happiness.  If  men  were  more  sensitive 
to  each  other's  feelings,  if  they  could  understand  one 
another  better,  they  would  cease  to  deplore  their  own  suffer- 
ings and  find  that  life  in  the  larger  sense,  a  corporate  life 
of  consenting  human  individualities,  contains  within  itself 
potentialities  of  real  happiness.  La  joie  de  vivre,  which  is 
extinguished  by  narrow  egotism,  may  burst  out  afresh  in 
altruistic  aims,  in  the  efforts  of  a  community  to  purge 
itself  of  its  maladies,  in  its  resolute  concerted  striving  to- 
wards an  exalted  goal.  Quite  elementary  and  simple  things 
like  pity,  and  affection,  and  love,  supply  us  with  materials, 
not  for  wailing  and  misery,  but  for  a  rich  contentment  and 
a  serene  peace.  And  so  from  the  realism  of  dreadful  facts 
we  get  to  the  idealism  of  simple  emotions,  the  discovery 
that  man  is  not  by  nature  depraved,  but  by  nature  good 
and  filled  with  the  joy  of  life,  finding  in  love  and  human 
service  the  satisfaction  alike  of  his  heart  and  his  head. 
Perhaps  before  that  morrow  dawns  man  must  needs  pass 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  doubt  and  despair. 
But  he  may  win  the  happy  secret  at  last,  and,  if  I  may 
judge  once  more  from  the  tendencies  of  Russian  literature, 
and  from  the  work  especially  of  the  young  writer  Alexis 


200    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Remizoff,  it  is  thus  that  we  may  find  the  path  towards  our 
future  deliverance.  We  shall  not  be  untrue  to  life;  we 
shall  not  close  our  eyes  to  the  existence  of  evil ;  but  having 
once  grappled  with  the  malady  of  pessimistic  selfishness  we 
shall  discover  how  the  idealism  of  simple  things  can,  as 
though  by  magic,  make  us  healthful  and  sane. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA 

III 

WHY  do  we  speak  of  a  "  new  "  school  of  dramatists  ?  And 
in  what  sense  do  they  exhibit  novelty,  as  compared  with 
their  predecessors  ?  Many  of  the  conditions  for  the  pro- 
duction of  drama  are,  we  know,  fixed  and  constant — the 
conditions,  for  instance,  which  are  involved  in  the  presenta- 
tion of  a  concentrated  story  or  episode,  carried  out  by  living 
personages,  moving  and  talking  before  us.  The  dramatist 
cannot  explain  to  his  audience,  he  can  only  illustrate ; 
he  reveals  character  not  by  description  but  by  action  and 
dialogue  :  he  has  only  a  short  time  to  produce  his  effect, 
and  therefore  he  must  hit  hard  and  hit  early.  All  these 
things  we  know,  for  they  constitute  the  difference  between 
writing  novels  and  writing  plays.  But  there  are  other 
conditions — or  perhaps  we  ought  to  call  them  traditions 
or  prejudices — which  are  inessential,  variable,  dependent 
on  mere  custom  and  fashion.  If  a  man  ignores  such  as 
these,  which  his  precedessor  respected  and  of  which  very 
likely  he  made  a  fetish,  then  on  this  ground  he  might  be 
called  a  "  new  "  dramatist.  There  are,  for  instance,  the 
prejudice  for  a  happy  ending,  the  use  of  soliloquies  and 
asides,  the  necessity  for  "  situations  "  at  the  end  of  each 
act,  the  idea  that  you  must  not  introduce  fresh  personages 
in  the  last  act,  but  gradually  allow  the  course  of  your  story 
to  strip  off  the  unessential  characters  and  leave  you 
towards  the  close  with  just  the  two  or  three  vital  characters 
who  matter.  These  are  all  temporary  and  accidental 
fashions,  so  to  speak,  and  a  play  is  not  necessarily  better 
because  it  retains  them,  or  worse  because  it  chooses  to 
ignore  them.  Even  Scribe's  sedulous  care  for  a  piece  Men 
faite  has  now  become  an  outworn  game — at  all  events, 
with  some  of  the  moderns.  Dramatic  construction,  though 
still  considered  a  counsel  of  perfection,  is  not  recognised 
among  our  contemporaries  as  absolutely  necessary  to 
dramatic  salvation. 

But  there  are  much  more  subtle  differences  than  these 

201 


202    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

between  the  newer  and  the  older  school.  It  is  a  question 
of  temper,  a  question  of  manner,  a  question  of  preferred 
subjects.  The  attitude  towards  the  world  has  changed, 
the  attitude,  in  especial,  towards  moral  problems  and 
social  questions.  Those  doubters  and  agnostics  who  in 
the  'sixties  and  'seventies  were  sealed  of  the  tribe  of 
Matthew  Arnold  and  Arthur  Clough  were  more  than  a 
little  sad  about  their  obstinate  questionings.  Their 
scepticism  was  not  audacious  :  it  was  diffident,  humble, 
melancholy.  They  were  very  sorry  that  they  could  not 
agree  with  the  orthodox — it  was  their  misfortune,  not  their 
fault.  They  ought  to  be  condoled  with,  not  reprobated. 
The  more  modern  attitude  is  not  so  much  daring  as  in- 
curious. Why  should  we  bluster  and  say  with  John  Stuart 
Mill — "  and  if  such  a  Being  condemn  me  to  Hell,  to  Hell 
I  will  go  "  ?  Really  there  is  no  reason  for  any  fuss.  All 
the  fighting  is  over  and  done  with.  We  need  not  brandish 
our  sceptical  steel  in  the  face  of  opponents  whose  oppor- 
tunities for  offensive  attack  are  so  strictly  limited.  There- 
fore the  new  school  neither  strives  nor  cries  because  it  is 
persuaded  that  belief  or  unbelief  is  mainly  a  matter  of 
temperament  or  of  ancestry,  for  which  the  individual 
cannot  be  held  responsible.  If  he  is  born  a  religious  mystic, 
he  will  write  poetry  like  Miss  Evelyn  Underbill  or  Mr. 
Francis  Thompson ;  and  if  his  nature  is  to  be  an  agnostic, 
he  will  compose  poems  like  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy.  Things 
are  what  they  are  and  they  will  be  what  they  will  be. 
Why  should  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  disturbed  ? 

One  result  of  this  temper  or  attitude  is  that  all  the  ethical 
and  social  problems  which  our  fathers  fondly  and  foolishly 
thought  to  be  solved  are  regarded  by  their  sons  as  entirely 
open  questions.  There  are  no  moral  laws  of  the  absolute 
character  which  Kant  delineated  :  there  are  a  set  of  con- 
ventions, some  of  them  of  considerable  authority,  but  many 
of  them  merely  transitory  and  more  or  less  accidental, 
depending  on  time  and  place  and  associations.  Did  you 
think  that  it  was  wrong  for  a  girl  to  run  away  from  her 
home  ?  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  sign  of  a  fine  inde- 
pendence, as  in  the  case  of  Janet  de  Mullins  in  Mr.  Hankin's 
play,  The  Last  of  the  De  Mullins.  Did  you  suppose  that 
when  a  prodigal  returned  to  his  home,  he  came  back  in  a 
chastened  and  repentant  state  of  mind,  having  sown  his 
tares  and  very  grateful  that  there  was  a  home  to  welcome 
him  ?  Oh  no  !  He  comes — as  in  The  Return  of  the  Prodigal, 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  203 

also  by  Mr.  Hankin — to  make  what  terms  he  can  with  his 
outraged  father  and  secure  for  himself  a  further  period  of 
indolent  wastefulness  at  the  paternal  expense.  Did  you 
imagine  that  a  woman  naturally  preferred  wedlock  to  a 
looser  bond  of  connection,  in  order,  among  other  things, 
that  her  child  should  be  legitimate  ?  You  are  wrong. 
The  man  she  chose  for  her  lover  might  not  suit  her  for  a 
husband,  as  in  the  case  of  the  heroines  of  Hindle  Wakes 
and  Mr.  Galsworthy's  The  Eldest  Son.  Indeed,  when  the 
instinct  for  maternity  is  very  strong,  a  woman  will  not 
care  who  may  be  the  father  of  her  child.  Let  him  fulfil 
his  temporary  function,  and  she  will  fulfil  her  lasting  one. 
On  this  point  read  again  Janet's  views  in  the  very  illus- 
trative play  already  referred  to,  Mr.  Hankin' s  The  Last  of 
the  De  Mullins.  The  classic  instance  is  in  Maxime  For- 
mont's  novel  Le  Semeur  (translated  as  The  Child  of  Chance) ; 
but  also  some  suggestion  of  the  same  spirit  is  found  in 
Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  Man  and  Superman.  I  am  not  con- 
cerned, of  course,  to  pass  any  ethical  criticism  on  these 
things;  I  merely  note  them  as  remarkable  signs  and 
evidences  of  a  modern  temper. 

And  this  naturally  leads  me  to  consider  the  kind  of 
subjects  with  which  the  new  dramatist  prefers  to  deal. 
The  great  phenomenon  of  our  time  is  the  Emergence  of 
Woman,  and  it  obviously  affords  a  splendid  opportunity  for 
the  dramatist.  One  of  the  most  constant  qualities  in  all 
dramatic  work  is  the  implied  antithesis  between  the  human 
being  and  some  great  force,  or  forces,  with  which  he  is  in 
conflict.  These  forces  may  be  envisaged  either  as  a  great 
impersonal  fate  or  necessity ;  or  as  the  heritage  of  a  par- 
ticular kind  of  character  bequeathed  from  generation  to 
generation;  or,  once  more,  as  the  great  mass  of  social 
prejudice  and  convention,  accumulated  through  many 
ages.  The  individual  feels  himself  cribbed,  cabined,  and 
confined  by  these  forces  which  seem  to  be  outside  himself 
— or,  at  all  events,  outside  his  own  instinctive  impulses — 
and  the  course  of  the  struggle  in  which  he  engages  to  free 
himself  from  restraints  and  live  his  own  life  is  of  the 
essence  of  drama.  Men  have  been  all  along  more  or  less 
in  revolt,  and  in  the  struggle  have  proved  themselves  either 
heroes  or  villains.  But  it  is  a  more  delicate  and  interesting 
thing  when  woman  dons  her  armour  and  goes  into  opposi- 
tion, because  her  revolt  touches,  in  a  very  immediate 
fashion,  sacred  institutions  like  home  and  family.  Ibsen 


204    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

was  one  of  the  earliest  to  understand  the  significance  of 
this  woman  movement,  and  because  he  regarded  woman  as 
the  born  anarchist  his  plays  gave  a  powerful  incentive 
to  feminism  and  set  the  example  for  many  dramatists. 
A  characteristic  example  also  is  to  be  found  in  Sudermann's 
play  Heimat,  which  we  know  as  Magda.  In  this  the 
heroine  turns  her  back  on  her  home,  and  seeks  an  inde- 
pendent career  outside.  On  her  return  she  has  some  very 
bitter  things  to  say  of  the  conditions  which  made  her  home 
life  so  intolerable  to  her,  as — for  that  is  the  assumption— 
they  would  to  any  other  girl  of  spirit.  Within  recent  years 
we  have  seen,  of  course,  several  examples  of  plays  based 
on  this  insurgence  of  womanhood,  many  of  them  written 
by  female  authors. 

It  would,  in  consequence,  hardly  be  too  much  to  say 
that  the  nineteenth-century  frame  of  mind  was  built  up 
on  ideas  with  which  the  more  modern  mood  is  glaringly 
at  variance.  A  woman's  life,  so  the  older  notion  ran, 
should  be  more  or  less  a  secluded  life ;  her  girlhood  should 
be  under  the  tutelage  of  her  father  and  her  mother;  her 
marriage  should  not  so  much  emancipate  her  as  put  her 
under  another  guardianship.  Having  accepted  her  hus- 
band, she  was  bound  to  make  the  best  of  him,  whatever 
his  mental  or  moral  deficiencies.  For  marriage  was  an 
institution  intended  to  protect  the  woman,  and  keep  her 
in  a  safe  position,  free  from  the  soul-harassing  competition 
of  ordinary  commercial  and  professional  life.  One  of  the 
drawbacks  of  this  theory  was  found  to  be  the  large  pre- 
dominance of  women,  and  the  consequent  impossibility 
of  their  all  finding  a  home.  Hence,  when  the  daughter 
began  to  revolt,  she  was  able  to  plead  in  self-defence  that, 
although  she  was  apparently  educated  for  matrimony, 
matrimony  was  not  likely  to  come  in  her  way.  It  was  not 
mere  wilfulness,  therefore,  but  rather  a  duty  that  she 
should  look  out  for  herself  and  take  her  own  chances  in 
the  rough  and  tumble  of  things.  But  when  once  a  revolt 
begins  you  never  know  to  what  it  may  lead.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  revolt  of  the  daughter  was  mixed  up  with  a 
much  larger  revolt  of  women  as  such,  whether  daughter, 
wife,  or  mistress.  What  is  the  value  of  laws  which  enjoin 
domestic  privacy  on  the  female  ?  Apparently  they  were 
made  by  man  for  his  own  convenience,  and  they  have  no 
other  sanction  except  the  tyrannical  verdict  of  the  male. 
Thus  marriage  is  one  of  the  institutions  first  assailed. 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  205 

Why  should  a  wife  go  on  living  with  a  husband  whom  she 
despises?  Why  should  marriage  unions  last  through  the 
whole  life  ?  Why  should  not  the  instinct  of  motherhood 
be  treated  quite  separately  from  the  usual  environment  of 
a  legal  husband  and  a  recognised  home  ?  Remember  that 
woman  is  the  born  anarchist,  because  in  certain  senses  she 
is  more  of  an  independent  individual  than  the  average 
male.  Men  are  more  or  less  alike  :  women  are  often, 
perhaps  always,  diverse.  And  thus  all  so-called  ethical 
laws,  moral  ordinances,  social  conventions,  are  put  into 
the  melting-pot  and,  as  we  have  seen,  women,  as  treated 
by  the  new  dramatists,  do  many  strange  and  unusual 
things  in  the  pursuit  of  their  ideal  freedom.  Ibsen,  perhaps, 
started  the  business;  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  Mr.  St.  John 
Hankin,  Miss  Elizabeth  Robins,  Miss  Netta  Syrett,  and 
many  others,  joined  in  the  cry.  The  worst  of  it  is  that 
sometimes  in  their  hot-headed  enthusiasm  the  apostles  of 
freedom  get  on  a  wrong  scent. 

Probably  many  of  us  have  read  Miss  Elizabeth  Robins' 
so-called  novel,  to  which  she  gives  as  a  title,  Where 
Are  You  Going  To  ?  The  point  of  the  tract,  for  it  is 
more  of  a  tract  than  a  story,  was  to  support  the  agitation 
against  the  White  Slave  traffic,  and  a  lurid  tale  was 
told  of  how  two  innocent  girls  living  in  the  country  were 
trapped  on  their  arrival  in  town  and  taken  to  a  house  of 
ill-fame.  But  the  story,  as  one  read  it,  struck  one  not  only 
as  paradoxical,  but  also  as  a  revival  of  a  somewhat  ancient 
legend.  The  average  observer  of  life  wondered  whether 
such  things  could  be.  And  it  appeared,  from  an  article 
in  The  English  Review,  that  so  impartial  and  unprejudiced 
a  writer  as  Mrs.  Billington-Greig  set  herself  to  investi- 
gate the  available  facts.  The  result  of  her  exhaustive 
inquiry  is  that  there  is  not,  and  apparently  has  not  been 
in  recent  years,  a  single  well-attested  case  in  which  a  girl 
has  been  trapped  into  the  White  Slave  traffic  in  this 
country  against  her  will.  Obviously,  there  are,  of  course, 
cases  of  seduction,  and  insidious  advertisements  are  some- 
times published  enticing  girls  abroad ;  but  the  lurid  accounts 
of  compulsory  detention  and  outrage  appear  to  be  entirely 
baseless.  So,  at  least,  Mrs.  Billington-Greig  thinks,  and 
to  a  large  extent  proves,  in  her  extremely  careful  study  of 
the  whole  question.  The  true  reformer  must  not  be  in 
such  a  violent  hurry,  or  he  may  do  damage  to  his  own 
cause. 


206    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Personally,  I  hardly  realised  how  great  was  the  change 
that  had  come  over,  not  only  the  topics  with  which  the 
modern  dramatist  chooses  to  deal,  but  also  the  temper  in 
which  he  approaches  them,  until  I  saw  one  of  the  per- 
formances of  the  Stage  Society  in  November  1907.  It 
was  a  performance  of  Mr.  Granville  Barker's  play,  Waste. 
It  is  true  that  it  was  a  "  prohibited  "  piece,  but  some- 
times one  can  understand  these  matters  better  when  one 
looks  at  extreme  cases.  Here,  at  all  events,  was  a  fine 
and  serious  piece  of  work,  full  of  drama,  keenly  interested 
in  psychological  analysis,  with  the  issues  of  the  story 
carried  out  in  a  most  unflinching  and  remorseless  fashion. 
The  very  title  gave  one  an  indication  of  the  plot.  In  a 
modern  world  there  is  a  great  deal  of  wastefulness.  Women 
are  sacrificed,  children  are  sacrificed,  above  all  men  of 
light  and  leading  are  sacrificed.  The  hero  is  a  politician 
of  something  more  than  mere  cleverness,  for  Henry  Trebell 
is  a  man  who  has  become  a  considerable  personage  in  the 
politics  of  his  time,  a  statesman  whom  everybody  imagines 
as  a  possible  member  of  a  Ministry  of  all  the  talents. 
Suppose  that  such  a  man  in  a  moment  of  madness,  in  a 
moment  which  he  describes  as  a  "  drunken  fit,"  com- 
promises a  married  woman  with  fatal  effects.  Is  the  whole 
of  his  political  career  to  be  blasted,  not  only  to  his  own 
damage  but  his  country's  ?  That  is  one  of  the  most  serious 
and  also  the  most  obvious  of  the  problems  which  Mr. 
Granville  Barker  put  before  us  in  Waste.  Henry  Trebell' s 
special  line  of  work  is  education,  education  such  as  every 
citizen  ought  to  be  able  to  command  for  himself  and  his 
children,  education,  not  so  much  secular — with  all  the 
damaging  associations  of  that  term — as  national,  and 
neither  religious  nor  irreligious.  This  is  the  sphere  in 
which  Mr.  Trebell  excels.  He  has  the  art  of  conciliating 
the  High  Church  party;  he  has  won  over  Lord  Charles 
Cantelupe,  who  represents  the  ecclesiastical  interest;  he 
is  equally  happy,  it  appears,  in  his  management  of  the 
Nonconformists  and  Dissenters,  and  he  has  his  own  scheme 
for  dealing  with  ecclesiastical  funds.  Such  a  man  is  a 
valuable  acquisition  for  any  administration  in  our  modern 
England,  and  when,  after  some  dallying  with  the  Liberal 
camp,  he  transfers  his  services  to  the  Conservative  ranks, 
the  Earl  of  Horsham,  the  Tory  Prime  Minister,  determines 
on  the  bold  stroke  of  including  him  in  his  Cabinet. 

And  now  we  come  to  more  delicate  problems,  concerned 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  207 

with  the  relations  between  the  sexes  and  the  intricacies 
of  a  certain  kind  of  masculine  character.  Henry  Trebell 
is  a  man  who,  as  his  sister  (a  character,  by  the  way,  admir- 
ably played  by  Miss  Henrietta  Watson)  describes  him,  has 
a  certain  scorn  both  of  men  and  of  women.  It  is  a  dan- 
gerous thing  to  look  upon  human  beings  of  either  sex  from 
a  standpoint  of  contempt.  The  man  who  does  so  is  only 
too  apt  to  regard  his  fellow  creatures  as  puppets,  to  be 
used  as  his  fancy  dictates.  Certainly  Henry  Trebell 
treated  politicians  with  an  easy  negligence,  and  if  he  had 
confined  himself  to  this  ingenious  and  also  reprehensible 
role,  he  might  still  have  been  hailed  as  the  saviour  of 
society.  But  he  was  not  content  with  this.  He  must 
needs  treat  women  as  playthings  also,  as  some  bachelors 
have  a  temptation  to  do.  And  it  is  just  here  that  the 
shadow  of  Nemesis  is  waiting  for  him.  Mrs.  O'Connell  is 
a  slight,  inconsiderable,  vivacious,  empty-headed,  attractive 
woman,  with  no  settled  principles,  idle,  vacuous,  easily 
swayed  by  any  masterful  spirit  whom  she  encounters. 
Trebell,  who  thinks  no  more  about  her  than  he  does  about 
others  of  her  sex,  engages  lightly  and  thoughtlessly  in  an 
intrigue.  That  is  in  July;  and  in  the  second  act,  which 
takes  place  in  October,  we  find  him  confronted  with  the 
consequences.  Truly  the  results  are  dreadful  enough, 
for  Mrs.  O'Connell  has  been  childless  hitherto,  much  to 
the  sorrow  of  her  husband,  and  she  will  not  face  the  prospect 
of  the  appalling  scandal  that  is  hanging  over  her.  In 
the  third  act  we  find  that  she  is  already  dead,  dead  under 
such  suspicious  circumstances  that  an  inquest  is  to  be  held, 
although  we  of  the  audience  know  well  enough  that  she 
had  put  herself  into  the  hands  of  a  worthless  doctor,  and 
that  Trebell  is  technically  guiltless  of  her  death.  But  the 
issue  is  not  only  fatal  to  Mrs.  O'Connell,  but  to  the  man 
with  whom  she  had  so  heedlessly  associated  herself.  In 
the  first  place,  what  is  Lord  Horsham  to  do  ?  He  is  forming 
his  Cabinet,  and  his  intention  was  to  include  Trebell  in 
its  ranks.  If  such  a  scandal  gets  known,  can  his  Adminis- 
tration survive?  In  an  extremely  clever  conference  at 
Lord  Horsham' s  house,  we  find  the  Prime  Minister  himself, 
surrounded  by  Lord  Charles  Cantelupe,  Mr.  Russell  Black- 
borough,  George  Farrant,  and  others,  debating  the  matter 
backwards  and  forwards.  Justin  O'Connell,  the  husband, 
decides — for  reasons  of  his  own — to  hold  his  tongue. 
But  there  are  many  other  considerations  involved,  and  the 


208    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

final  decision  arrived  at  by  Lord  Horsham  is  to  write  a 
letter  to  Trebell  and  tell  him  that  in  the  circumstances  his 
services  will  be  dispensed  with.  Political  failure  is  thus 
the  first  of  Trebell' s  punishments.  It  is  not  the  only  one. 
By  a  strange  reaction  from  his  former  position  of  cynicism, 
he  suddenly  discovers  within  himself  an  immense  con- 
tempt for  the  woman  who  could  destroy  his  child,  an 
immense  desire  to  "express  himself"  (the  phrase  is  not 
mine,  but  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  characters) 
in  the  offspring  which  should  inherit  his  genius  and  his 
aspirations.  This  is  the  most  terrible  penalty  of  all,  and 
it  is  the  direct  consequence  of,  or  reaction  from,  his  own 
sceptical  scorn  of  the  customary  motives  which  weigh 
with  men,  the  usual  passions  which  control  their  hearts. 
And  so  in  an  impressive  last  act  we  have  the  suicide  of 
the  hero,  the  final  culmination  of  a  great  life  greatly  thrown 
away.  His  country  is  deprived  of  all  the  useful  services 
that  he  might  have  rendered.  That  is  one  form  of  waste. 
And  to  this  we  have  to  add  the  destruction  of  human  life — 
three  lives,  man,  woman,  and  child — because  of  a  deliberate 
violation  of  human  and  ethical  laws. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pass  any  comment  on  a  play  of  this 
kind,  except  so  far  as  it  indicates  and  illustrates  certain 
well-defined  modern  tendencies.  The  main  point  to 
observe  is  the  underlying  assumption — that  there  is  no 
sphere  of  human  action,  no  kind  of  subject  with  which  art 
cannot  claim  to  deal.  It  is  rather  a  large  assumption 
because  art  is  not  necessarily  nature,  and  least  of  all  is  it 
a  mere  copy  of  nature.  The  business  of  the  artist  is  to 
select,  whether  in  painting  or  writing  or  fashioning  figures 
out  of  marble.  In  each  case  he  enjoys  the  free  exercise 
of  his  creative  powers,  which  include  discrimination  and 
therefore  also  rejection.  In  his  play  of  Waste  Mr.  Granville 
Barker  interprets  this  theory  in  his  own  fashion.  Art  may 
deal  with  anything  it  chooses — even  abortion.  Dramatic 
art  may  take  up  any  subject,  even  the  most  repellent  one, 
so  far  as  it  can  be  shown  to  concern  the  interests  of 
humanity.  Even  if  we  granted  the  assumption,  which, 
of  course,  some  people  are  not  prepared  to  do,  we  should 
have  to  consider  a  necessary  corollary.  The  artist  is  to 
be  allowed  the  privilege  of  treating  any  subject  he  chooses 
on  one  very  serious  condition,  namely,  that  he  can  lift  up 
his  subject  into  the  sphere  of  art,  or,  in  other  words,  that 
his  treatment  of  his  subject  should  be  in  the  best  sense  of 


REALISTIC  DRAMA  209 

the  word  artistic.  If  art  claims  every  province  of  human 
life  as  its  own,  it  must  justify  this  claim  by  the  manner 
in  which  it  deals  with  its  theme.  The  case  stands  here 
just  as  it  does  with  plagiarism — a  man  is  permitted  to 
borrow  from  preceding  writers  if  he  can  justify  his  theft, 
as,  for  instance,  Shakespeare  could,  by  the  use  to  which 
he  puts  it.  But  does  Mr.  Granville  Barker  justify  his 
choice  of  subject  by  his  treatment?  Certainly  there  can 
be  no  more  important  problem  than  the  extent  to  which 
a  man  of  public  importance  is  to  be  condoned,  or  con- 
demned, on  the  score  of  his  private  immorality.  But  Mr. 
Barker  chooses  so  to  paint  his  hero  as  to  make  him  un- 
sympathetic— in  fact,  a  very  exceptional  type  of  man, 
with  a  distinct  vein  of  brutality.  Most  men  who  have 
made  fools  of  themselves  with  women  are  still  endowed  with 
sufficient  chivalry  of  nature  to  be  sorry  for  the  woman, 
to  have  some  pity  and  tenderness  towards  her,  however 
light  and  frivolous  she  may  be.  Henry  Trebell  has  no 
such  feelings  towards  Mrs.  O'Connell.  His  scene  with  her 
in  the  second  act  is  absolutely  appalling  in  its  coarse 
brutality,  a  horrid  episode  of  something  which,  to  the 
woman,  at  all  events,  must  appear  as  the  extreme  of 
masculine  callousness.  One  could  imagine  even  a  theme 
like  this  illustrated  in  far  different  fashion,  and,  possibly, 
made  more  powerful  because  the  man  was  a  better  specimen 
of  his  sex  and  the  woman  a  more  intelligent  one  of  hers. 
But  in  this  matter  Mr.  Barker  is  only  too  docile  a  pupil  of 
his  master  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  There  must  be  no  romance 
in  the  relations  between  the  sexes,  no  sentimentalism,  no 
generous  emotion.  Perhaps  this  was  the  more  accentuated 
in  the  actual  production  of  Waste  because  Mr.  Barker 
himself  played  the  part  of  the  hero,  which  was  originally 
designed  for  Mr.  Norman  McKinnel.  In  Mr.  McKinnel 
we  should  have  had  the  brutality  of  a  really  strong  man. 
In  Mr.  Barker's  case  we  had  the  callousness  of  a  man  to 
whom  it  never  seemed  natural  to  be  either  brutal  or  coarse. 
Mrs.  O'Connell  was  very  cleverly  played,  but  the  more 
truly  feminine  the  actress  was,  the  greater  grew  our  indig- 
nation at  the  treatment  to  which  Mrs.  O'Connell  was 
exposed  by  Henry  Trebell. 

It  is  strange  how  the  casting  of  a  play  can  affect  its 
aesthetic  values  and  the  balance  of  its  characters.  An  apt 
illustration  is  afforded  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's 
The  Eldest  Son.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  country  house 


210    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

presided  over  by  a  sporting  squire  of  the  old  school,  who 
possesses  a  large  family  of  sons  and  daughters  and  an 
admirably  devoted  wife.     Unfortunately,   the  eldest  son 
enters  upon  an  intrigue  with  a  lady's  maid,  who  is  the 
daughter  of  the  gamekeeper.     The  usual  result  follows. 
The  girl  has  to  reveal  to  the  young  man  that  she  is  expecting 
to  be  a  mother,  and  the  whole  esclandre  comes  out.     What 
is  to  be  done  ?     The  squire,  who  is  bent  on  forcing  a  young 
under-keeper  to  make  reparation  to  a  village  girl  whom  he 
has  wronged,  shrinks  from  the  same  problem  when  it  is 
presented  in  the  form  of  his  heir  and  his  wife's  lady's  maid. 
Happily  for  all  concerned,  the  gamekeeper,  who  has  some 
family  pride,  refuses  to  let  his  daughter  marry  her  lover 
on  the  very  proper  ground  that  the  match  would  be  un- 
suitable, and  by  no  means  likely  to  lead  to  happiness. 
The  whole  point  of  the  play  clearly  is  that  in  the  case  of 
obvious  mesalliances  there  is  no  real  "  honour  "  involved 
in  the  performance  of    a  contract  which  is  not  to  the 
advantage   of  either  party.     You   cannot   compensate   a 
girl's  loss  of  virtue  by  offering  her  a  marriage  more  ruinous 
than  the  original  bad  act.     Therefore  the  head-keeper  is 
quite  justified  in  refusing  to  see  that  two  wrongs  make  a 
right.     But   somehow   in   the   play   itself  this   estimable 
moral  came  out  very  strangely  and  paradoxically.     What 
we  saw  before  our  eyes  was  a  very  pretty  and  charming 
girl  (the  part  of  the  lady' s  maid  was  played  by  Miss  Cathleen 
Nesbitt)  who  was  much  too  good  for  her  young  man,  and 
seemed  much  more  distinguished  than  all  the  gentlefolks 
put  together.     The  eldest  son  would  indeed  have  been  a 
lucky  fellow  to  get  so  nice  a  wife,  even  if  they  had  both 
of  them  to  go  to  Canada ;  while  by  the  side  of  this  brilliant 
young  heroine  the  squire's  wife,  sons,  and  daughter  un- 
mistakably paled  their  ineffectual  fires  !     The  ladies  ought, 
one  may  suppose,  to  have  exhibited  their  superior  social 
station,"  if  the  dramatist's  story  was  to  come  out  right, 
whereas  it  was  the  servant  who  won  hands  down.     That 
is  the  worst  of  having  a  sympathetic  part  played  by  a 
clever  actress — unless,  indeed,  one  may  suspect  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy  of    the    cynical    suggestion    that   in    matters    of 
"  honour "  and  so  forth,  the  so-called  upper  classes  are 
inferior    to    their    gamekeepers    and  ladies'    maids.     The 
Eldest  Son,  however,  is  not  so  good  a  play  as  Hindle  Wakes, 
with  which  in  a  certain  fashion  it  can  be  compared.     For 
in  Hindle  Wakes  our  sympathies  are  intended  to  be  wholly 
enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  spirited  girl,  the  mill-hand. 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  211 

Having  enjoyed  her  week-end  "  lark,"    she  sees  clearly 
enough  that  marriage  is  a  very  different  affair  from  an 
episodical  amour — amongst  other  reasons  because,  as  one 
of  the  characters  remarks  in  one  of  Mr.  Hankin's  pieces, 
"  it  lasts  so  long."     She  therefore  does  not  have  to  depend 
on  her  father  to  make  up  her  mind  for  her.     She  refuses 
point-blank  to  have  anything  further  to  do  with  the  son 
of  her  employer.     And  seeing  the  young  man  and  the  sort 
of  home-life  which  he  enjoys,  we  honour  her  for  her  decision. 
Hindle   Wakes,   moreover,    was   admirably   cast.     It   was 
enacted  by  men  and  women  who  knew  the  kind  of  life  they 
were  depicting,  and  were  therefore  able  to  convey  a  real 
thrill  of  actual  vitality  to  the  audience.     And  Miss  Edyth 
GoodalFs  performance  as  the  heroine  was  a  very  fine  one. 
No  one,   however,  would  select  The  Eldest  Son  as  a 
typical  play   of  Mr.   Galsworthy.     I  imagine  that  most 
people  who  desire  to  get  a  true  appreciation  of  the  drama- 
tist's position  in  the  modern  world  would  turn  rather  to 
pieces  like  Strife  and  Justice.     Here  emerges  one  of  the 
chief  characteristics  of  Mr.  Galsworthy,  so  far  as  I  am  able 
to  observe,  a  tendency  which  can  only  be  described  as 
pessimistic.     Life  does  not  appear  to  him  to  be  a  pleasant 
affair,  though  that  very  largely  may  be  due  to  the  arrange- 
ments we  make  for  living  it.     Modern  society  is  hampered 
by   several  outworn  conventions,   legal  enactments,   and 
perhaps   also   creeds,    and    the   point   which   strikes    the 
dramatist  is  the  exceeding  hardship  which  is  often  involved 
for  the  individual.     Or  again.     We  find  ourselves  in  a 
critical  time  with  the  two  forces  of  capitalism  and  labour 
ranged   against   one   another   in   continuous   and   deadly 
combat.     Sometimes  the  victory  sways  in  one  direction, 
sometimes  in  another.     But  here  again,  just  because  the 
forces  are  evenly  balanced,  it  is  the  individual  who  suffers — 
most  of  all  perhaps  in  his  domestic  relations.     And  what 
are  we  to  say  of  the  outcome  of  the  struggle  when  it  remains 
so  uncertain,  when  the  tragedy  of  conflicting  aims  and 
purposes  ends,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  social  ob- 
server, in  a  farce  of  wasted  efforts,  of  hopeless  endeavour, 
of  absolute  sterility  ?     That,  I  take  it,  is  the  lesson  (the 
word  may  be  pardoned)  of  the  play  called  Strife,  which 
closes  with  a  touch  of  real  cynicism,  a  cynicism  which  may 
be  detected  in  The  Silver  Box,  but  which  comes  out  very 
strongly  in  the  later  play.     The  Secretary  of  the  Employers 
turning,  just  before  the  final  curtain,  to  a  Trades  Union 
official,  says  in  an  excited  tone,  "  Do  you  know,  sir,  these 


212    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

terms  (of  compromise)  are  the  very  same  we  drew  up 
together,  you  and  I,  and  put  to  both  sides  before  the  fight 
began?  All  this — all  this — and — and  what  for?"  Har- 
ness, the  Trades  Union  official,  replies  in  a  slow,  grim  voice, 
"  There's  where  the  fun  comes  in  !  "  I  can  hardly  imagine 
any  remark  more  flippantly  cynical,  expressive  as  it  is  of 
the  whole  dreary  inutility  and  hopelessness  of  a  conflict 
which  at  the  close  leaves  the  two  contending  parties  as 
they  were  before  the  fight  began.  That  is,  of  course,  the 
peculiarity  of  a  play  conceived  in  the  modern  fashion,  as 
ending  in  an  impasse  or  a  note  of  interrogation.  But  it  also 
explains  why  such  a  drama  can  never  be  popular  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  term,  and  must  belong  to  the  intellectual 
drama  of  a  clique  rather  than  to  the  nation  at  large. 

It  is  worth  while  to  enlarge  on  this  point.  Strife  was 
undoubtedly  a  very  fine  play,  admirably  acted  by  such 
artists  as  Mr.  Norman  McKinnel  and  Mr.  J.  Fisher  White, 
and  entirely  worthy  of  the  reproduction  which  it  sub- 
sequently enjoyed  at  the  Comedy  Theatre.  Nevertheless, 
the  attitude  of  most  people  who  have  seen  the  piece  is 
distinctly  cold  and  negative.  They  are  glad  they  have 
seen  it  once,  they  have  found  a  real  interest  in  the  story, 
but  they  rarely  want  to  see  it  again.  It  would  seem  that 
Strife  does  not  belong  to  that  category  of  work  which  enlists 
on  its  side  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  What  is  the 
story .?  Briefly,  it  is  a  long  combat  between  John  Anthony, 
Chairman  of  the  Trenartha  Tin  Plate  Works,  and  David 
Roberts,  a  representative  of  the  workmen.  Each  side  is 
presented  with  absolute  neutrality  and  fairness.  John 
Anthony  is  a  hard,  dour  capitalist,  who  has  built  up  his 
industry  with  infinite  pains.  He  has  come  to  his  own 
conclusions  as  to  the  conditions  under  which  it  can  be  run 
successfully.  No  more  concessions  must  be  made  to  the 
workmen;  the  more  they  get,  the  more  they  will  desire. 
A  stand  must  be  made  some  time  if  the  capitalist  class  is 
to  be  preserved ;  otherwise  the  proletariat  will  ride  rough- 
shod over  individual  property.  On  the  other  hand, 
David  Roberts,  equally  clear-sighted,  discovers  that  the 
present  conditions  do  not  admit  of  a  proper  living  wage 
for  the  labourer.  He,  too,  asseverates  that  a  stand  must 
be  made  once  for  all,  and  he  encourages  the  other  members 
of  the  workmen's  Committee  to  prolong  the  strike,  even 
though  they  see  their  own  kith  and  kin  starving  around 
them.  In  his  own  case  he  has  to  go  through  the  unutter- 
able anguish  of  seeing  his  wife  die— -die  of  starvation  caused 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  213 

by  his  obstinacy  or  his  firmness,  whatever  point  of  view 
you  adopt.  But  the  struggle  has  other  issues  besides  the 
death  of  a  woman.  Gradually  the  moderate  men  on  both 
sides  are  led  to  the  conclusion — a  conclusion  dear  to  all 
Englishmen — that  there  must  be  a  compromise.  Some  of 
his  friends  desert  John  Anthony;  a  good  many  of  his 
fellow-workmen  desert  David  Roberts.  And  so  we  arrive 
at  the  final  scene  in  which  the  Chairman  of  the  Tin  Plate 
Works  is  upset  by  his  own  Committee,  and  the  chief 
spokesman  of  the  employes  is  betrayed  by  his  friends. 
It  is  a  fine  scene,  for  the  two  principal  antagonists  have  a 
sincere  respect  for  one  another.  "  So  they  have  done  us 
both  down,  Mr.  Anthony?"  says  Robert;  and  Anthony 
replies,  "  Both  broken  men,  my  friend  Roberts."  The 
extreme  partisans  being  thus  got  rid  of,  the  compromise 
is  carried  through,  and  the  Secretary  discovers,  as  we  have 
seen,  that  the  actual  terms  for  the  cessation  of  war  are 
identical  with  those  suggested  many  weeks  previously, 
"  A  woman  dead;  and  the  two  best  men  broken  !  "  such 
is  the  general  summary  as  enunciated  by  Harness. 

Now  if  we  want  to  see  why  such  a  play  cannot  un- 
reservedly appeal  to  an  audience,  I  am  afraid  the  answer 
must  be  that  it  holds  the  balance  too  evenly.  The  people 
who  throng  a  theatre  have  certain  peculiarities  of  their 
own,  amongst  which  is  to  be  found  the  idea  that  they  must 
not  be  confused  as  to  the  side  on  which  their  interest  and 
sympathy  are  to  be  bestowed.  In  general  terms  we  express 
the  principle  as  a  dislike  of  being  hoodwinked,  an  eager 
wish  to  "  know  all  about  it,"  a  ready  determination  to 
take  sides  if  only  the  spectators  are  shown  which  side  they 
ought  to  take.  Of  course,  this  is  not  a  very  estimable 
characteristic  of  an  audience.  Doubtless  the  intellectual 
thing  is  to  study  very  carefully  what  is  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  It  is  not  only  in  the  theatre,  however,  that  the 
democracy  shows  these  qualities  or  feelings.  Is  a  philo- 
sophic statesman  ever  popular?  Is  it  a  good  character- 
istic in  a  leader  of  a  party  that  he  is  able  so  thoroughly  to 
understand  the  opposite  faction  as  to  give  their  standpoint 
as  clearly  as  his  own  ?  The  career  of  Mr.  Balfour,  as 
compared  with  that  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  is  sufficient  to  prove 
how  important  it  is  for  a  party  leader  to  ignore  all  that  can 
be  said  for  his  opponents  and  to  advance  his  own  cause 
with  ruthless  pertinacity.  Much  the  same  thing  happens 
in  a  theatre.  You  take,  for  instance,  a  play  like  that  of 
Robert  Browning  on  Strafford,  Pym  and  Strafford  are 


214    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

left  at  the  close  confronting  each  other,  and  each  has 
a  very  good  account  to  give  of  himself  and  of  his  own 
aims.  It  is  six  to  one  and  half-a-dozen  to  the  other.  A 
thoroughly  careful  and  intellectual  balance  is  preserved. 
Straff  or  d  was  not  a  successful  play,  and  perhaps  one  of  the 
chief  reasons  was  the  very  fact  of  this  intellectual  equipoise. 
A  far  inferior  craftsman,  Mr.  Wills,  writing  a  play  on 
Charles  I,  and  having  at  his  finger-tips  theatrical  technique, 
did  not  hesitate  to  blacken  the  character  of  Cromwell 
just  in  the  same  proportion  as  he  exalted  the  character 
of  the  Stuart  monarch.  When  Shakespeare  had  to  deal 
with  the  struggle  between  Richard  III  and  Henry  Tudor, 
he  did  not  leave  us  in  any  doubt  as  to  the  proper  direction 
of  our  sympathies.  The  result  may  have  been,  probably 
was,  exceedingly  unfair  to  Richard  Crookback,  whom 
many  subsequent  historians  have  tried  to  whitewash  and 
with  no  little  success.  But  Shakespeare  had  the  instinct 
of  the  theatre,  and  he  knew  that  it  would  be  ruinous  for 
his  play  if  he  allowed  his  audience  to  wonder  which  was 
the  hero  and  which  was  the  villain.  It  is  no  good  pro- 
testing that  this  is  a  popular  infirmity  which  ought  to  be 
sternly  resisted  and  corrected.  It  belongs  to  the  whole 
attitude  of  the  populace  towards  politics,  religion,  and 
life.  You  must  not  keep  your  audience  in  the  dark  as  to 
some  necessary  fact  in  the  intrigue  which  is  being  dissected 
before  their  very  eyes.  Nor  yet  must  you  allow  your 
audience  to  vacillate  in  its  interests  and  sympathies. 
There  can  be  no  question,  if  we  look  back  over  its  past 
history,  that  drama  is  the  most  democratic  of  the  arts, 
and  that  when  it  was  at  its  best,  during  the  Elizabethan 
period,  it  involved  an  appeal  to  every  class  and  section 
of  the  community.  Purely  intellectual  drama,  written 
for  superior  persons,  may  have  every  merit,  but  sometimes 
it  perilously  resembles  the  so-called  literary  play,  not  meant 
for  popular  production  but  only  designed  for  perusal  in 
an  armchair.  What  would  have  happened  to  an  Eliza- 
bethan audience  if  they  had  come  out  of  their  wooden 
theatre  wondering  which  of  the  two,  Edmund  or  Edgar, 
was  right  in  King  Lear,  or  whether  there  was  not  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  on  behalf  of  lago  in  his  duel  with  Othello  ? 
A  psychological  analysis  which  proves  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  heroes  and  villains,  that  we  are  all  more  or 
less  alike,  that  we  have  no  right  to  judge,  may  be  both 
philosophic  and  true.  But  it  does  not  help  the  theatre  as 
such,  nor  yet  in  the  larger  sense  of  the  word  does  it  help 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  215 

theatrical  art,  because  an  artist  must  select,  and,  by  the 
mere  fact  of  selecting,  becomes  a  partisan. 

We  touch  a  deeper  note  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  Justice, 
or  rather  we  are  involved  in  utter  and  blank  despair. 
Never  was  so  cruel  a  play  written.     Hardly  any  piece  that 
I  am  aware  of  is  so  drenched  in  an  atmosphere  of  in- 
spissated gloom.     The  author,   of  course,   is  anxious  to 
show  us  what  a  ghastly  thing  solitary  confinement  in  prison 
is,  how  ruinous  it  is  to  the  individual,  how  hopelessly 
unjust  and  unfair.     He  would  hardly  affirm  that  it  is  so 
in  all  cases,  and  therefore  we  have  to  understand  that  it  is 
in  his  special  case — -the  case  of  a  sensitive,  highly  strung 
junior  clerk  in  a  solicitor's  office.     Naturally,  therefore, 
the  dramatist  is  forced  to  cog  his  dice  because  he  has  taken 
an   exceptional  case  and  has  to  treat  it  exceptionally. 
Not  for  one  moment  does  Mr.  Galsworthy  relent  in  his 
treatment  of  the  story.     Falder,  who  forges  a  cheque  for 
a  woman's  sake,  is  doomed  from  the  moment  of  his  sin  to 
remorseless  punishment.     I  still  remember  with  a  shudder, 
when  the  play   was  performed   at  the  Duke  of  York's 
Theatre,  the  horrible  picture  of  Mr.  Dennis  Eadie  as  Falder, 
pacing  backwards  and  forwards  in  his  cell  like  a  hunted 
animal,  and  finally  being  driven  to  bang  at  his  door  in 
hopeless  impotence.     Even  when  he  is  at  last  released, 
and  it  looks  for  a  moment  as  if  there  might  be  some  chance 
for  him,  fate  dogs  his  footsteps  and  he  throws  himself 
down  the  stone  stairs  in  a  vain  effort  to  escape  the  tyranny 
of   "  Justice."     One    wonders    whether    such    things    are 
going  on  all  round  one,  and  winces  at  the  bare  possibility. 
There  is  only  one  figure  in  the  appalling  drama  which  one 
remembers   with   a   faint   sense   of  gratitude.     It   is   the 
senior  clerk,   Cokeson,   a   simple,   kindly,   religious  man, 
with  a  touch  of  Dickens  characterisation  about  him,  who 
serves  to  redeem  our  hopes  in  humanity.     When  Zola's 
L'Assommoir  was   turned   into   didactic  melodrama  and 
produced  in  English  form  under  the  title  of  Drink,  we 
thought  it  a  horrible  piece,  made  if  anything  more  horrible 
by  the  admirable  acting  of  Mr.  Charles  Warner  as  Coupeau. 
But  Justice  is   far  sterner   stuff,   cruel,    relentless,    soul- 
shaking.     Such  themes  should  be  treated  in  a  pamphlet, 
unless  we  are  all  to  become  sterile  and  ineffective  pessimists, 
through  sheer  despair  of  our  fellow-creatures. 

Cynicism  and  pessimism — these  are  the  "  notes  "  which 
are  never  far  away  from  modern  realistic  drama.  If  we 
look  at  the  dramatic  works  of  Mr.  St.  John  Hankin,  which 


216    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

in  themselves  require  and  deserve  a  careful  study,  we  shall 
observe  that  the  development  of  the  story  is  nearly  always 
conceived  in  a  vein  of  cynicism.  Mr.  Hankin  has  many 
dramatic  qualities.  He  has  an  admirable  sense,  for 
instance,  of  appropriate  dialogue,  almost  as  good  as  that 
which  Ibsen  possesses  in  some  of  his  most  characteristic 
pieces.  The  scenes  between  the  elder  and  younger  brother 
in  The  Return  of  the  Prodigal  are  excellently  written,  with 
no  surplusage,  terse,  brilliant,  and  to  the  point.  Never- 
theless, it  is  in  the  vein  pf  cynicism  that  Mr.  Hankin  pur- 
sues his  dramatic  themes,  and  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
cynicism  is  the  fume  of  petty  hearts.  Take  the  play  to 
which  allusion  has  just  been  made,  The  Return  of  the 
Prodigal.  What  is  its  main  point?  It  shows  us  the 
wastrel,  Eustace  Jackson,  returning  to  his  father's  home 
by  means  of  a  conscious  artifice  in  order  to  provoke 
sympathy,  getting  the  best  of  everything  by  means  of  the 
persistent  obstinacy  of  thoroughgoing  idleness,  and  finally 
obtaining  from  his  father  a  pension  of  £250  a  year  as  one 
of  the  conditions  of  leaving  him  alone.  Listen  to  these 
sentences  : — 

Mr.  Jackson  (grumbling) :  "  What  I  can't  see  is  why  I 
should  allow  you  this  money.  Here's  Henry,  who's  per- 
fectly satisfactory,  and  has  never  caused  me  a  moment's 
anxiety.  I  don't  give  him  money.  Whereas  you,  who 
have  never  caused  me  anything  else,  expect  me  to  keep 
you  for  the  remainder  of  your  life." 

Such  is  the  father's  perfectly  reasonable  attitude,  but 
the  elder  son  unexpectedly  sides  with  Eustace. 

"  Father,  I  think  you  had  better  do  as  he  says.  If  you 
gave  him  a  thousand  pounds  he'd  only  lose  it.  Better 
make  him  an  allowance.  Then  you  can  always  stop  it  if 
he  does  not  behave  himself.  It  is  a  shameless  proposal, 
as  you  say,  but  it's  practical." 

So  it  is  on  this  promise  of  £250  a  year  that  the  bargain 
is  settled  which  keeps  Eustace  from  want  and  enables  him 
to  continue  his  career  of  inefficient  passivity.  If  that  is 
not  a  cynical  denouement,  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  is.  But 
there  is  much  the  same  cynicism  in  The  Charity  that  began 
at  Home,  in  The  Cassilis  Engagement,  and  in  The  Last  of 
the  De  Mullins.  Fortunately,  there  is  a  good  deal  besides 
which  we  can  heartily  commend,  for  in  the  last-mentioned 
play  Janet  de  Mullins  is  really  a  fine  character,  though  we 
could  have  wished  that  she  had  not  been  quite  so  defiantly 
impertinent  and  so  cocksure  of  herself. 


REALISTIC   DRAMA  217 

The  Silver  Box,  the  earliest  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  plays, 
is  in  certain  respects  comparable  with  Mr.  Hankin's  The 
Return  of  the  Prodigal.  The  particular  prodigal  in  Mr. 
Galsworthy's  play  is  a  young  Jack  Earth  wick,  who 
stumbles  into  his  father's  house  late  at  night  with  a  bag 
and  purse  which  do  not  belong  to  him,  but  are  the  property 
of  some  light-o'-loVe  whom  he  has  picked  up  in  the  streets. 
A  ne'er-do-well  called  Jones  comes  in  with  him,  and  when 
the  young  man  falls  to  sleep  on  the  sofa,  decamps,  not  only 
with  the  purse,  but  with  a  silver  box  conveniently  found 
at  his  elbow.  Jones  is  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Jones,  who  is 
charwoman  in  the  Barthwicks'  house.  Now,  without  any 
doubt,  the  original  culprit  is  young  Jack  Barthwick,  but 
it  is  the  Joneses,  husband  and  wife,  who  have  to  stand  the 
racket  and  bear  all  the  blame.  Mrs.  Jones  loses  her  job, 
although,  poor  woman,  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  whole 
affair,  and  Jones  gets  one  month  with  hard  labour.  Once 
more,  notice  carefully  the  conclusion.  This  is  Jones's 
comment:  "Call  this  justice?  What  about  'im?  'E 
got  drunk,  'E  took  the  purse,  but  it's  his  money  got  him 
off," — which,  parenthetically,  is  quite  true.  While  Mrs. 
Jones  turns  to  Barthwick  with  a  humble  gesture  and  with 
the  appealing  words,  "  Oh,  Sir  !  "  the  magistrate  closes  the 
affair  :  '  We  will  now  adjourn  for  lunch."  This  is  the 
kind  of  cynicism  which,  clearly,  appeals  to  Mr.  Galsworthy, 
for  in  the  more  intense  and  vivid  form  it  is  to  be  found 
both  in  Strife  and  in  Justice. 

In  Mr.  Galsworthy's  case  also,  as  well  as  in  Mr.  Hankin, 
there  are  other  and  sounder  elements.  Let  me  not  forget 
that  Mr.  Galsworthy  wrote  The  Little  Dream  and  The  Pigeon. 
He  calls  the  latter  a  piece  fantasy.  It  is  the  most  delightful 
of  his  plays  to  read.  If  it  did  not  come  out  quite  so  well 
on  the  stage — at  all  events  it  had  but  little  success  when 

E  reduced  at  the  Royalty  Theatre — the  cause  probably 
ty  in  the  casting  of  some  of  the  characters,  especially, 
perhaps,  the  eccentric  Frenchman,  Ferrand.  But  it  is  a 
charming  piece  of  work  just  because  it  is  touched  with  a 
tender  idealism,  the  idealism  of  simple  emotions.  And 
perhaps  it  is  not  altogether  an  inept  commentary  on  the 
modern  realistic  drama  that  two  most  successful  plays 
have  been  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's  The  Great  Adventure  and 
Milestones,  which,  though  they  may  have  the  realistic 
manner,  no  one  would  call  realistic  dramas. 


EUGENE  BRIEUX,  MORALIST 

ONE  of  the  outstanding  theatrical  successes  of  the  year 
1917  in  London  was  gained  by  M.  Brieux.  Not  only  was 
his  much-discussed  play  Les  Avaries  (Damaged  Goods), 
acted  for  several  months,  but  his  other  and  far  better  play, 
The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont,  enjoyed  an  almost 
equal  prosperity.  When  we  consider  the  kind  of  enter- 
tainment prevalent  in  the  Metropolis  at  most  of  the  theatres, 
Brieux' s  success  seems  curious  and  remarkable.  There 
is  no  question  that  theatrical  managers  discovered  during 
the  greater  part  of  1917  that  the  lighter  forms  of  dramatic 
work  were  far  more  likely  to  please  and  attract  than  any 
of  those  pieces  which  might  be  called  problem  plays  or 
even  formal  romantic  comedies.  It  would  be  by  no  means 
unjust  to  say  that  farces,  musical  comedies,  and  revues 
represent  three-fourths  of  the  dramatic  fare  recently 
offered  in  London  theatres.  Naturally  there  have  been 
exceptions,  but  the  fact  that  the  majority  of  the  spectators 
are  soldiers,  returning  from  the  Front  to  enjoy  a  brief 
holiday,  necessitated,  in  the  view  of  those  responsible  for 
theatrical  production,  the  cheerful,  good-natured,  laughable 
play  with  no  pretension  to  reality,  a  frank  make-believe, 
in  order  to  turn  gloomy  thoughts  away  from  too  serious 
a  pre-occupation  with  the  war.  To  find,  therefore,  in  the 
midst  of  frivolous  programmes  of  this  kind  a  play  like 
Brieux' s  Damaged  Goods,  winning  not  only  a  modicum  of 
prosperity  but  actually  constituting  one  of  the  great  suc- 
cesses, might  evoke  a  certain  amount  of  surprise.  While 
all  around  consisted  of  the  light  flummery  of  music  and 
dance,  or  else  the  stereotyped  surprises  of  American 
"  crook  "  stories,  there  was  witnessed  a  piece  written  by 
an  earnest  moralist,  very  outspoken,  quite  reckless  of  the 
ordinary  conventions,  and  with  a  daring  frankness  of  tone 
and  language  which  held  the  attention  of  numerous 
audiences,  not  only  in  London  itself,  but  in  the  provinces. 
We  may,  of  course,  give  a  different  explanation  of  this 
seeming  paradox.  We  may  assert  that  the  element  of 
prurient  curiosity,  the  idea  that  something  rather  tremen- 
dous, and  certainly  scandalous,  was  going  to  be  witnessed 
on  the  boards — and  the  discovery  that  the  actual  pro- 
duction of  the  play  involved  a  striking  change  of  mental 

218 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST       219 

and  moral  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  licensing  authorities 
—had  something  to  do  with  the  financial  prosperity  of  a 
strong,  sincere,  and  unconventional  piece  of  work.  No 
doubt  it  is  true  that  some  of  those  who  crowded  into  the 
St.  Martin's  Theatre  were  not  animated  by  the  highest 
and  most  ethical  of  motives.  Nevertheless,  there  must 
have  been  many  who  accepted  this  piece  of  Brieux,  as 
the  author  intended  it  to  be  accepted,  as  a  fearless  study 
of  an  exceedingly  difficult  problem,  with  the  insistent 
moral  that  society  for  its  own  sake  must  recognise  and 
take  precaution  against  a  hidden  evil  which  was  poisoning 
its  very  roots. 

In  the  same  way,  though  in  a  less  degree,  The  Three 
Daughters  of  M.  Dupont  received  a  welcome  from  the 
thoughtful  people  who  knew  that  the  dramatist  was 
touching  large  and  difficult  questions.  The  play,  it  is 
true,  is  very  different  from  Les  Avaries.  In  the  latter 
case  the  dramatist  presses  his  moral  with  unrelenting  force. 
Unless  the  legislature  will  do  something  to  check  the 
progress  of  disease,  the  whole  of  human  society  will  suffer. 
But  in  the  former  case  the  dramatist's  touch  is  more 
uncertain.  Has  he  any  moral  ?  There  is  one  certainly, 
which  suggests  that  the  natural  function  of  a  wife  is  to  be 
the  mother  of  children,  and  that  if  she  is  denied  this  privi- 
lege her  position  in  the  household  is  shorn  of  its  true  value 
and  meaning.  But  there  is  a  cynicism  about  the  close 
of  the  play  not  always  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  Brieux. 
There  is  no  question  that  Julie,  the  daughter  who  is  un- 
happily married,  accepts  her  lot  with  a  certain  amount 
of  newly  learnt  philosophy  because  she  sees  that  it  is 
capable  of  alleviation.  She  intends  to  do  as  others  have 
done,  and  if  she  gets  on  badly  with  her  husband — well, 
there  is  a  chance  with  other  admirers.  The  world  is  too 
big,  the  dramatist  seems  to  say,  for  any  given  individual 
to  struggle  against.  Society  is  too  securely  founded  on 
its  hypocrisies  and  conventions  to  be  overthrown  by  any 
iconoclast,  however  earnest  and  sincere. 

In  this  respect  the  play  is  a  little  like  La  Foi,  in  which 
Brieux' s  apparent  object  is  to  prove  that  mankind  must 
have  their  religious  delusions,  and  that  without  them  life 
for  the  majority  of  mankind  would  be  intolerable.  You 
may  destroy  the  false  idols  as  often  as  you  please,  but 
there  always  remains  the  permanent  instinct  of  the  human 
mind  to  worship  something,  it  hardly  cares  what;  while 
in  the  majority  of  cases  if  you  uproot  a  faith  you  find  in 


220    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

its  successor,  or  successors,  a  variety  of  degrading  super- 
stitions. La  Foi  was  translated  under  the  title  False 
Gods,  produced  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre,  and  had  a  con- 
siderable run,  much  to  the  surprise  of  those  who,  perhaps 
with  small  superficial  knowledge  of  Brieux,  understood 
that  he  was  a  sort  of  dramatic  Don  Quixote  tilting  at 
windmills.  In  the  play  in  question  we  are  clearly  ex- 
pected to  have  every  sympathy  with  the  young  reformer 
who  wishes  to  abolish  degrading  superstitions  and  prevent 
the  common  people  from  believing  in  a  lie.  The  scene  is 
laid  in  Upper  Egypt,  where  every  year  the  sacrifice  of  a 
virgin  is  made  to  the  goddess  Isis.  A  young  and  earnest 
rationalist  called  Satni,  engaged  to  the  maiden  who  has 
been  designated  for  the  sacrifice,  inaugurates  a  great 
movement  amongst  the  people  with  a  view  to  abolishing 
the  doctrines  which  had  hitherto  been  accepted  from  the 
priests.  Pharaoh  gives  orders  that  Satni  and  his  followers 
should  be  removed  out  of  the  way ;  the  High  Priest  has 
a  more  subtle  method  of  dealing  with  him.  He  takes  him 
to  the  Temple  and  shows  him  how  the  miracles  are  worked. 
The  great  statue  of  Isis  is  made  to  bend  her  head  to  signify 
her  satisfaction  with  the  sacrifices  offered  to  her,  and  after 
that  miracle  has  taken  place  many  wonderful  cures  amongst 
the  populace  are  reported.  Satni,  when  he  sees  the 
wretchedness  of  the  people,  their  hopes  of  some  allevia- 
tion in  their  lot,  their  instinctive  faith  in  the  unseen,  him- 
self draws  the  lever  which  moves  the  statue,  having  made 
the  pregnant  discovery  that  it  is  better  for  the  people  to 
have  some  faith  than  to  have  none  at  all.  The  truth  of  a 
religion,  in  other  words,  does  not  matter  so  much.  What 
does  matter  is  the  satisfaction,  consolation,  appeasement 
of  the  human  mind,  always  craving  for  something  beyond 
itself.  It  would  seem  that  Brieux  on  some  earlier  occa- 
sion had  been  to  Lourdes,  and  having  himself  watched  the 
touching  credulity  of  the  worshippers  and  their  immense 
elation  at  the  prospect  of  cures  of  long-seated  ailments, 
came  to  a  conclusion,  which  he  afterwards  put  into  the 
mouth  of  his  reformer,  Satni.  He  adopted,  in  this  matter, 
a  position  somewhat  different  from  that  taken  up  by  Renan 
in  The  Priest  of  Nemi.  Renan  is  quite  aware  that  a  good 
deal  of  harm  can  be  done  by  the  abolition  of  old  super- 
stitions, but  on  the  other  hand  he  is  convinced  that  reform 
will  triumph,  and  that  an  attitude  of  mind  more  in  accord- 
ance with  the  demands  of  logic  and  reason  is  infinitely 
preferable  to  a  blind  and  uncertain  faith.  It  is  not  quite 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST       221 

certain  how  far  Brieux  would  go  with  Renan  in  his  desire 
for  reform.  Certainly  his  play  La  Foi  leaves  us  with  the 
impression  that  religion  is  useful  for  the  common  people, 
a  doctrine  also  held  by  Voltaire.  Humanity  needs  its 
crutches,  and  their  value  must  not  be  despised.1 

I  believe  the  first  play  of  Brieux  produced  in  London 
was  Les  Bienfaiteurs.  That  was  succeeded  by  Maternite 
and  Les  Hannetons,  both  done  by  the  Stage  Society,  and 
False  Gods,  which,  as  already  stated,  saw  the  light  at  His 
Majesty's  Theatre.  The  Stage  Society  also  produced  Les 
Trois  Filles,  with  Miss  Ethel  Irving  in  the  cast.  It  is  clear, 
then,  that  Brieux  has  gone  some  way  in  the  conquest  of 
London.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  what  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  means  in  his  Preface  to  "  Three  Plays  of 
Brieux  "  when  he  declares  that  London  found  out  Brieux 
before  Paris  did.  According  to  Mr.  Shaw,  Paris  is  "  easily 
the  most  prejudiced,  old-fashioned,  obsolete-minded  city 
in  the  west  of  Europe."  2  She  did  not  know  what  a  dramatic 
treasure  she  had  in  Brieux  until  England  pointed  it  out. 
So  far  as  I  can  discover  this  is  very  far  from  the  truth  of 
the  matter.  Some  of  the  best  critics  in  Paris,  like  Lemaitre, 
Faguet,  Rene,  Doumic,  and  even  to  some  extent  Sarcey, 
had  given  a  great  deal  of  praise  to  Brieux' s  early  plays, 
and  had  very  little  hesitation  in  proclaiming  him  a  drama- 
tist who  counts.  To  single  out  Brieux  from  the  majority 
of  dramatists  of  France,  as  though  he  were  engaged  in  a 
work  belonging  to  himself  alone,  and  quite  unlike  that  of 
others,  is  a  mistake  which  could  only  be  made  by  those 
who  are  not  familiar  with  the  modern  products  of  drama 
and  novel  in  France.  Nearly  all  the  themes  developed  by 
Brieux  find  their  echoes  in  other  writers.  I  need  only 
mention  men  like  Hervieu,  Bataille,  Bordeaux,  Bazin, 
Margueritte  and  others  to  prove  that  Brieux' s  voice  was 
not  that  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  but  that  he  had 
many  collaborators  in  the  work  of  criticism  and  reform. 
One  of  Hervieu' s  best-known  plays,  Le  Dedale,  has  almost 
precisely  the  same  plot  as  Brieux' s  Le  Berceau. 

One  reason  why  some  French  critics  have  looked  as- 
kance at  Brieux  is,  that  they  have  been  offended  by  his 
lack  of  style.  A  well-known  critic  once  began  an  article 
on  the  novels  of  Georges  Ohnet  by  asking  pardon  of 
his  readers  because  he  was  not  going  to  deal,  as  he 

1  Euripides'  Bacchce  suggests  the  same   moral  and  awakens  the  same 
surprise  that  a  professed  rationalist  should  defend  superstition. 

2  Three  Plays  of  Brieux.     Preface  by  Bernard  Shaw,  p.  xxviii. 


222    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

usually  did,  with  literature,  but  with  Ohnet.  Nevertheless, 
Georges  Ohnet  had  a  reputation  of  his  own,  and  he,  too, 
enjoyed  a  triumph  in  London  when  The  Ironmaster  was 
produced  by  the  Kendals.  Ohnet  could  write  novels 
which  were  not  strictly  literature — a  phenomenon  common 
enough,  by  the  way,  in  our  own  country.  But  that  did 
not  prevent  him  from  becoming  a  force  of  some  kind,  a 
sentimental  and  melodramatic  force,  perhaps,  but  still  by 
no  means  devoid  of  a  real  influence.  Brieux,  too,  is  hardly 
to  be  reckoned  amongst  those  who  write  literature;  he 
has  none  of  the  fine  reticence,  the  purged  and  polished 
style,  the  exquisite  tact,  the  punctilious  self-control  of  the 
literary  artist.  Nevertheless,  he  is  a  dramatist  whose 
plays,  through  sheer  force  of  strong  individuality,  have  won 
their  place  in  contemporary  drama.  It  may  be  interest- 
ing and  worth  while  to  ask  why  Brieux  has  obtained  so 
strong  a  hold  on  the  contemporary  world,  and  why  his 
contributions  to  the  general  total  of  what  men  and  critics 
think  and  say  represent  so  valuable  and  important  a  body 
of  work. 

Eugene  Brieux  began  writing  plays  at  an  early  age,  but 
it  was  not  till  he  was  over  thirty  that  the  particular  quality 
of  his  dramatic  art  was  revealed.  If  we  look  at  the  list  of 
pieces  produced  during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  we 
shall  find  that  they  are  nearly  all  didactic  and  are  aimed 
at  some  weakness,  wrong,  or  iniquity  of  the  social  system.1 

1  Brieux's  plays  are  usually  divided  into  three  periods,  the  first  including 
the  earlier  and  less  mature  pieces,  the  second  period  representing  the 
storm  and  stress  of  the  intolerant  reformer,  while  the  third  and  last  period 
shows  the  dramatist  in  a  milder,  and  possibly  even  in  an  optimistic  mood. 

BRIEUX,  BORN  1858. 

First  Period.                         Les  Remplagantes       .     .     .     1901 
M enages  ft  Artistes  1890      Les  Avariis 1901 


Blanchette 
M.  de  Riboval 
La  Couvee 


1892      La  Petite  Amie     ....  1902 

_        Maternite 1903 

1893 

UEngrenage    .      .  1894  Third  Period. 

Les  Bienfaiteurs  .  1896      La  Deserteuse       .... 

U  Evasion 1896      Les  Hannetons      ....  1906 

La  Frangaise        ....  1907 

Second  Period.                       Simone 1908 

Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont  1897      Suzette 1909 

Resultatdes  Courses  .     .     .     1898      La  Foi 1909 

LeBerceau 1898      La  Femme  Seule  ....  1913 

La  Robe  Rouge     ....     1900      Le  Bourgeois  aux  Champs    .  1914 
Twenty-two  serious  plays  and  six  or  eight  lighter  pieces.     I  take  the 
list  from  Brieux  and  Contemporary  French  Society  (Putnam),  a  careful  and 
valuable  study  by  W.  H.  Scheifley,  to  which  I  am  much  indebted. 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST        223 

Euripides,  the  Greek  dramatist,  who  accepted  as  his  mission 
the  task  of  revealing  to  Greek  audiences  human  nature 
as  it  is,  not  as  it  might  be,  converted  many  of  his  dramas 
into  an  appeal  against  the  injustice  of  the  gods  of  the 
Greek  Pantheon — especially  Athene,  Apollo  and  Artemis. 
Brieux  does  not  impeach  Providence ;  he  is  not  concerned 
with  the  rule  of  the  Divine  powers,  and  therefore  does  not 
take  it  as  his  business,  except  incidentally  and  inferentially, 
to  base  his  criticism  on  the  supposed  delinquencies  of 
Heaven.  Like  Rousseau,  he  attacks  directly  the  social 
system.  Whatever  men  and  women  might  or  might  not 
be  naturally  and  originally,  at  all  events  they  are  im- 
prisoned, mainly  by  their  own  acts,  in  an  organisation 
which  represses  some  of  their  better  instincts,  exaggerates 
here  and  there  evil  tendencies,  and  makes  them  the  slaves 
of  institutions  radically  bad  and  harmful.  A  very  brief 
review  of  some  of  his  plays  will  prove  this  point.  Elan- 
chette,  produced  in  1892,  pointed  out  the  evil  results  of 
education  on  girls  of  the  working  classes.  L'Engrenage, 
1894,  was  a  tirade  against  corruption  in  politics.  Les 
Bienfaiteurs,  1896,  pointed  out  the  glaring  defects  of 
fashionable  charity,  the  frivolity  of  those  who  handled  such 
artificial  modes  of  doing  good  to  fellow-creatures,  and  the 
harm  produced  by  allowing  selfish  individuals  to  give 
indiscriminate  alms  instead  of  making  charity  a  settled 
policy.  Then  came  L'Evasion,  in  1896,  which  satirised 
too  submissive  a  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  heredity.  In 
this  play  Brieux  was  tilting  not  so  much  against  science 
itself,  as  against  the  way  in  which  it  is  interpreted  in  loose 
talk  by  those  who  have  not  really  studied  the  subject. 
Human  beings  can  easily  torture  themselves  by  a  one- 
sided application  of  even  well-based  scientific  principles. 
A  year  later  was  produced  Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont, 
to  which  I  have  already  referred  and  to  which  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  return.  La  Robe  Rouge,  1900,  revealed  the 
injustices  of  the  law.  Les  Avartts,  which  saw  the  light 
in  1901,  was  forbidden  by  the  Censor,  on  account  mainly 
of  its  medical  details.  Later  plays  included  Maternite,  La 
Foi,  and  a  brilliant  comedy  of  arresting  power,  entitled 
Les  Hannetons.  This  brief  enumeration  is  sufficient  to 
show  with  what  seriousness  of  purpose  Brieux  adopted 
the  role  of  dramatic  and  ethical  teacher.  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw  has  stated  that  "  what  we  want  as  the  basis  of  our 
plays  and  novels  is  not  romance  but  a  really  scientific 
natural  history."  In  many  respects  the  sentence  describes 


224    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

the  programme  of  Brieux.  In  his  efforts  at  didactic 
moralising  he  takes  up  the  work  of  Zola,  with  equal  power 
and,  perhaps,  with  greater  intelligence.  As  a  playwright 
he  may  be  said  to  be  the  disciple  of  Ibsen,  though  he  is 
manifestly  deficient  in  that  power  of  construction,  and 
that  remorseless  analytic  psychology  which  distinguish  the 
great  Norwegian  dramatist.  As  an  interpreter  of  life, 
Brieux  is,  above  all,  a  critic  occupied  with  the  wounds 
and  sores  of  suffering  humanity.  He  is  called  a  realist 
because  he  aims  straight  at  abuses  and  is  not  afraid  of 
strong  and  clear  language.  With  the  ordinary  artificial- 
ities of  the  stage  he  has  nothing  to  do.  He  does  not  believe 
in  the  necessity  for  a  happy  ending;  he  does  not  always 
believe  in  the  necessity  for  an  ending  at  all.  He  will  take 
a  chapter  of  human  life,  reveal  its  rottenness,  probe  its 
dangers,  and  define  as  accurately  as  he  can  the  effects  on 
the  men  and  women  concerned  in  his  study.  He  is  espe- 
cially concerned  with  the  future  welfare  of  children.1 
Romance,  however,  is  far  from  his  intention,  for  to  him 
romance  is  largely  deception,  hypocrisy,  a  refusal  to  look 
straight  at  the  problems  of  life,  an  evasion  of  the  main  issue. 
Compare  all  this  with  the  ordinary  attitude.  We  go  to 
see  plays  for  many  reasons ;  Brieux  practically  asks  us  to 
accept  at  his  hands  only  one  great  mission  of  the  dramatist. 
Dramatic  art  is  often  described  as  an  entertainment, 
something  that  is  to  heighten  our  spirits,  to  interest  and 
to  amuse  us,  to  make  us  laugh  so  that  we  may  be  saved 
from  all  temptation  to  tears.  Brieux  does  not  indulge  us 
in  any  of  these  ways.  Romance  is  as  much  falsehood  and 
deception  to  him  as  it  is  to  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  mainly 
because  the  romantic  play  or  the  romantic  drama  involves 
the  career  of  heroes  and  heroines  who  are  unreal,  exag- 
gerated, one-sided  portraits  to  which  little  corresponds  in 
our  actual  experience.  But  interpretation — another  of 
the  great  objects  with  which  the  dramatist  is  concerned — 
Brieux  fully  acknowledges  as  his  aim,  an  interpretation, 
be  it  remembered,  based  not  so  much  on  appreciation  as 
on  criticism.  In  order  to  interpret,  the  dramatist  must 
analyse  human  character  as  well  as  human  institutions. 
Indeed,  it  is  by  the  behaviour  of  the  human  beings  in  the 
play  under  a  given  system  that  the  spectator  discovers 

1  Eight  of  his  plays  deal  with  the  interests  of  the  rising  generation. 
The  future  of  the  child,  of  course,  enters  largely  into  the  question  of 
divorce. 


EUGENE  BRIEUX,   MORALIST       225 

how  deficient  and  obstructive  the  prevailing  system  is. 
It  is  open,  however,  for  us  to  remark  that  you  can  get 
quite  as  false  ideas  of  human  nature  by  studying  defects 
as  you  can  by  exaggerating  merits.  The  vice  of  all 
didacticism  is  that  the  dramatis  personce  are  invented  to 
subserve  a  particular  ethical  purpose.  They  do  not  exist 
in  and  for  themselves;  they  exist  because  the  exigencies 
of  the  dramatic  framework  require  them  to  be  of  a  par- 
ticular character.  In  many  of  Brieux's  plays,  and  espe- 
cially, perhaps,  in  Les  Avaries,  we  fail  to  become  interested 
in  his  characters  because  they  are  so  obviously  puppets 
used  to  enforce  a  moral.  Les  Avaries,  however,  is  an 
extreme  case,  and  even  in  this  avowed  tract,  or  social 
manifesto,  the  character  of  the  doctor,  as  we  saw  when 
the  play  was  recently  produced  in  London,  belongs  to  a 
powerful  human  type.  He  carries  out  the  usual  tasks  of 
the  "  raisonneur  "  on  a  high  ethical  plane,  and  his  image 
persists  in  the  mind,  not  merely  because  he  enforces  a 
particular  moral,  but  because  as  enacted  by  Mr.  Fisher 
White  he  was  human  and  true.  And  sometimes,  too,  the 
dramatist  forgets  the  intensely  serious  procedure  of  the 
play,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  third  act,  where,  in  the  midst 
of  dreary  discussions,  he  introduces  the  extremely  vivid 
portrait  of  a  courtesan,  fresh  and  original  and  accurately 
observed.  She  also  points  a  moral,  it  is  true.  But  mean- 
while she  lives. 

To  me,  I  confess,  Eugene  Brieux  is  especially  interesting, 
not  merely  because  he  reveals  some  of  the  defects  which 
inevitably  attach  to  edifying  and  didactic  drama,  but 
because  he  is  subject  to  influences  and  impressions  coming 
from  various  sources  which  do  not  always  coincide  with 
his  didactic  aims.  As  I  understand  him,  he  is  a  man  of 
considerable  force  of  character,  largely  self-taught,  who, 
as  he  develops,  takes  up  one  subject  after  another,  carries 
it  to  an  excess,  and  does  not  trouble  his  head  as  to  whether 
or  no  the  total  outcome  is  so  far  a  consistent  whole  as  to 
be  described  under  a  specific  formula.  Some  critics  have 
pointed  out  inconsistencies  in  Brieux.  That  is  inevitable 
in  every  moralist,  for  when  he  attacks  any  particular  phase 
of  the  social  order  he  is  so  engrossed  with  his  subject  that 
he  does  not  realise  how  each  part  of  that  social  order  is 
dependent  on  the  others,  and  how  extremely  difficult,  if 
not  impossible,  is  the  work  of  piecemeal  reform.  I 
mentioned  just  now  the  play  which  is  called  JJ  Evasion. 
Q 


226    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Here  our  author  is  protesting  against  that  superstitious 
reverence  with  which  some  of  us  are  apt  to  surround  the 
dicta  of  science.  The  dramatist  portrays  the  character  of 
a  doctor,  narrow-minded,  a  victim  of  his  own  phrases  and 
hypotheses,  who  believes  so  intensely  in  his  doctrine  of 
heredity  as  to  employ  it  alike  in  the  physical,  the  social, 
and  the  moral  sphere.  Because  certain  physical  tenden- 
cies are  passed  on  from  father  to  son,  it  is  assumed  that 
all  tendencies  are  so  transmitted.  A  man  who  has  a 
drunken  father  is  certainly  tempted  to  be  a  drunkard,  but 
it  does  not  follow  that  a  tendency  to  madness  or  a  suicidal 
tendency  is  similarly  developed.  Two  young  people,  one 
of  whom  had  a  father  who  has  committed  suicide,  while 
the  girl  is  illegitimate  and  the  daughter  of  an  immoral 
woman,  are  in  love  with  one  another  and  are  prepared  to 
marry.  The  doctor  intervenes  and  points  out  the  fatality 
of  this  course.  The  girl,  when  she  has  become  a  wife,  will 
go  wrong ;  the  young  man  will  reveal  a  certain  propensity 
to  destroy  himself.  But  all  this  the  dramatist  declares  is 
a  superstition  of  science,  and  people  who  cultivate  their 
will  and  who  have  faith  can  conquer  the  supposed  fatality. 
Such  is  the  main  teaching  of  L?  Evasion,  but  obviously 
such  teaching  does  not  accord  with  that  scientific  back- 
ground which  was  declared  just  now  to  be  the  character- 
istic of  Brieux's  dramaturgy.  It  might  be  conceded,  of 
course,  that  a  scientific  hypothesis  is  not  necessarily  a 
scientific  truth.  But  the  man  who  is  going  to  reform  an 
unreal  romantic  and  sentimental  drama  by  providing  a 
scientific  background  is  hardly  at  liberty  to  diffuse  so  much 
scepticism  about  science.  His  business,  one  would  sup- 
pose, would  be  rather  to  show  what  truth  exists  in  the 
doctrine  of  atavism  and  heredity  rather  than  to  demon- 
strate its  falsity. 

Or  take  another  instance.  In  one  of  his  plays,  as  we 
have  seen,  Brieux  points  out  how  miserable  is  the  condition 
of  a  wife  who  is  not  allowed  to  become  a  mother  owing  to 
the  selfishness  of  her  husband.  That  is  part  of  the  lesson 
of  The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont.  But  in  another 
piece,  MaternitS,  we  are  shown  all  the  misery  caused  by  a 
too  prolific  marriage — how  deplorable  is  the  case  of  a 
mother  who  is  perpetually  increasing  the  number  of  her 
children.1 

1  There  was  reported  a  short  time  ago  a  case  which  illustrates  this 
point.  Mrs.  Moran  Tubberclair,  of  Athlone,  has  given  birth  to  her  twenty- 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST        227 

Of  course,  inconsistencies  of  this  kind  can  be  defended 
on  the  ground  suggested  by  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  He  affirms 
that  a  teacher  is  always  afraid  of  his  extreme  disciples, 
and  that  for  this  reason  he  is  careful  to  suggest  the  anti- 
thesis to  his  doctrines,  if  only  to  anticipate  the  follies  of 
those  who  are  so  anxious  to  press  a  particular  doctrine  to 
an  unreal  extreme.  But  inconsistency,  even  so  far  as  it 
can  be  proved  against  Brieux,  only  makes  him  in  a  sense 
a  more  interesting  dramatist.  He  is,  so  to  speak,  learning 
every  day;  he  adds  fresh  points  to  those  accumulated 
before ;  he  is  inspired  by  new  motives ;  he  sees  new  visions ; 
and,  just  as  a  particular  point  seizes  his  attention,  he 
develops  it  without  paying  any  particular  regard  to  what 
he  himself  had  advanced  in  previous  work.  The  general 
tendency  of  his  dramas  is  to  dethrone  romance  and  to 
substitute  for  it  something  more  real  and  more  scientific. 
Yet  every  now  and  then  there  appears  the  romantic  im- 
pulse which  makes  his  figures  more  human,  and,  as  I 
think,  in  better  correspondence  with  life  as  we  find  it. 
Many  men  have  sought  to  abolish  romance  from  dramatic 
art,  but,  as  I  understand  it,  romance  is  one  of  the  inde- 
structible elements  of  humanity.  A  man  whose  business 
it  is  to  present  a  complete  picture  of  humanity  will 
never  be  able  to  get  rid  of  one  of  its  most  constant 
elements. 

From  this  point  of  view  The  Three  Daughters  of  M. 
Dupont  is  a  very  significant  piece  of  work.  The  author 
is  here  carrying  out,  not  one  design,  but  several,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  makes  his  whole  picture  quite  plausible 
or  persuasive.  M.  Dupont,  who  is  not  a  successful  man  of 
business,  has  three  daughters,  two,  Caroline  and  Angele, 
by  a  first  wife,  and  Julie  by  a  second.  Now  one  of  the 
social  injustices  which  Brieux  is  going  to  attack  is  the 
necessity  of  providing  a  dot  for  a  daughter  on  pain  of  not 


second  child.  Eleven  of  her  children  are  under  fourteen  years  of  age. 
If  we  assume  that  the  remaining  eleven,  the  elder  group,  have  much  the 
same  intervals  between  their  respective  births,  we  shall  conclude  that  the 
oldest  is  about  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  and  that  the  unhappy  mother, 
from  say  eighteen  onwards  to  forty-eight,  has  been  producing  a  child 
every  thirteen  or  fourteen  months  for  the  last  thirty  years  !  That  is  the 
sort  of  thing  which  justifies  Brieux's  Maternite — a  protest  against  the 
condemnation  of  women  to  perpetual  childbirth.  I  take  the  paragraph 
from  The  Globe  of  December  29,  1917.  Poor  Mrs.  Tubberclair  was  very 
obviously  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  excessive  fecundity  ! 


228    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

getting  her  a  husband.  What  follows,  then,  in  a  small 
bourgeois  household  when  a  daughter  can  only  find  a 
husband  if  she  brings  him  a  certain  amount  of  money  ? 
Well,  either  the  girl  does  not  get  married  at  all,  or  if  she 
does  get  married  is  married  unhappily,  or  altogether  goes 
to  the  bad.  That  is  to  be  exemplified  in  the  play  before 
us.  Caroline  becomes  a  dtvote,  Angele  commits  an 
"  indiscretion "  and  is  banished  from  home  to  win  her 
livelihood  in  ignoble  fashion  in  Paris;  Julie  marries 
Antonin,  the  son  of  another  bourgeois  family,  who  is 
attracted  by  the  promise  of  a  dot  with  Julie,  which  in 
reality  M.  Dupont  has  no  hopes  of  being  able  to  furnish. 
Such  appears  to  be  the  general  scheme,  but  in  working  it 
out  the  author  allows  himself,  I  will  not  say  changes  of 
intention,  but  the  influence  of  other  considerations,  adding, 
without  doubt,  to  the  general  rich  significance  of  the  drama 
but  with  scant  regard  for  the  main  contention.  Julie 
marries  Antonin,  and,  as  they  are  complete  strangers  to 
one  another,  they  do  not  find  the  path  of  matrimony 
especially  easy  or  pleasant,  There  has  been  deceit  and 
evasion  on  both  sides.  Dupont,  as  has  been  said,  has 
promised  a  dot  without  being  able  to  fulfil  his  promise. 
Antonin' s  parents  have  not  revealed  the  fact  that  Antonin's 
uncle,  from  whom  large  expectations  are  suggested,  is  in 
reality  a  bankrupt.  There  is  an  equal  amount  of  duplicity 
in  the  case  of  the  young  married  pair.  Each  pretends  to 
the  other  to  be  not  what  he  or  she  is  in  reality,  but  some- 
thing calculated  to  attract  and  to  please.  And  when  these 
pretensions  are  exploded  the  result  is,  of  course,  disillusion 
and  exasperation.  Julie  and  her  husband  "  have  it  out " 
with  one  another.  First  of  all  the  girl  explains  how  much 
she  has  been  deceived  in  matrimony.  And  then  it  is  the 
turn  of  the  young  husband  to  point  out  that  her  conduct 
has  been  quite  as  mendacious  as  his  own.  And  at  this 
point  we  almost  expect  to  find  a  kind  of  reconciliation 
based  on  these  mutual  avowals.  The  great  point  is,  that 
the  pair  have  begun  to  understand  one  another;  and 
understanding  might  very  well  lead  to  tolerance,  pardon, 
and  perhaps,  in  the  last  resort,  to  love.  In  that  case  we 
should  have  comedy  of  the  ordinary  type,  first,  misunder- 
standing and  unhappiness,  and  then,  through  many 
tribulations,  peace. 

Hereupon,  however,  the  author  bethinks  himself  of  his 
mission  as  a  moralist.     Julie  deplores  the  fact  that  she  has 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST       229 

not  been  given  a  child.  Antonin  assures  her  that  children  did 
not  come  within  the  scope  of  his  conjugal  ambition,  that  he 
had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  founding  a  family.  Then 
Julie  becomes  a  woman  in  revolt,  a  woman  who  is  baulked 
of  her  dearest  and  most  natural  desire — the  wife  prevented 
from  being  a  mother.  A  terrible  scene  of  violence  ensues, 
in  which  all  our  sympathies  are  to  be  given  to  the  unhappy 
Julie  and  we  are  asked  to  reprobate  the  infamous  conduct 
of  her  husband.  So  far  the  lesson  obviously  is  that  a 
marriage  conducted  on  principles  of  this  kind  is  an  out- 
rage, and  the  wife  in  such  conditions  no  better  than  a 
mistress.  Is  this  all  ?  By  no  means.  We  now  revert 
once  more  to  the  original  plan,  which  was  to  exemplify 
by  means  of  the  three  daughters  of  M.  Dupont  the  thesis 
that  in  a  middle-class  family  each  possible  career  is  a  fraud 
and  equally  ignoble.  First  of  all  Caroline  is  wounded  in 
her  devotion.  She  has  allowed  herself  to  become  enamoured 
of  a  workman  belonging  to  her  father.  He  seemed  to  her 
to  be  a  genius,  unjustly  debarred  from  making  the  success 
he  deserved.  Surreptitiously  she  gives  this  workman  a 
large  sum  of  money  left  her  by  her  aunt,  only  to  discover 
that  he  has  a  manage  of  his  own  and  three  children. 
Thereupon,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  she  is  prepared  to  sacrifice 
her  religion  and,  because  she  has  found  that  men  are 
deceitful,  to  accuse  Heaven  of  injustice.  Julie,  in  her  turn, 
after  her  experience  of  matrimony,  is  keen  for  a  divorce. 
Then  comes  the  turn  of  the  sister  in  Paris,  Angele.  Angele 
reasons  with  both  her  sisters  and  points  out  that  her 
particular  solution  of  her  difficulties  was  as  fatal  to  her 
peace  of  mind  as  were  the  careers  of  either  Caroline  or 
Julie.  And,  finally,  Madame  Dupont  is  brought  in  to 
explain  to  the  daughters,  and  especially  to  Julie,  that  most 
women  are  unhappy  in  matrimony  and  that  the  attitude 
of  revolt,  however  natural,  is  impossible  in  existing  social 
conditions.  What  is  the  result?  It  brings  back  all  the 
characters  exactly  to  the  position  in  which  they  started, 
and  leads  to  the  cynical  conclusion  that  you  had  better 
leave  society  alone,  and  that  you  cannot  reform  it 
but  must  accept  such  alleviations  as  may  be  possible. 
Julie  bethinks  her  that,  though  she  may  have  been  un- 
happy in  marriage,  she  may  well  be  less  happy  out  of 
marriage,  and,  despite  all  the  nobleness  of  her  senti- 
ments in  the  furious  scene  with  her  husband,  she  relapses 
finally  into  the  conviction  that  if  she  does  not  care  for 


230    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

her  husband  she  may  adopt  a  lover  for  whom  she  does 
care.1 

It  is  clear  that  we  have  passed  through  a  good  many 
different  phases  in  this  drama.  Either  Brieux  has  been 
so  interested  in  his  creations  as  to  allow  them  to  depart 
from  the  original  plan  traced  for  them,  or  else,  like  the 
ardent  and  generous  moralist  he  is,  he  pursues  one  path 
after  another  without  troubling  his  head  about  the  logical 
consistency  of  his  scheme.  The  sentimental  comedy  sud- 
denly turns  into  an  Ibsenite  drama,  full  of  passionate 
revolt,  and  then  ends,  if  .we  must  not  say  in  a  farce,  at  all 
events  in  the  cynical  suggestion  of  acquiescence  in  existing 
conditions  as  being  on  the  whole  the  least  likely  to  upset 
people.  Marriage  is  an  iniquity  in  certain  conditions,  but 
it  has  its  alleviations.  Most  of  the  careers  for  the  young 
women  of  the  middle  classes  have  their  disadvantages. 
We  must  accept  society  as  it  is.  To  apply  ideal  principles 
is  to  ignore  the  complexity,  the  inter-dependence  of  social 
conditions.  All  this,  let  it  be  admitted,  makes  an  ex- 
tremely interesting  play,  and  also,  as  I  venture  to  think, 
shows  Brieux  in  a  more  engaging  light  than  as  the  severely 
scientific  moralist  who  cares  nothing  for  his  characters  so 
long  as  they  fulfil  the  task  assigned  them — who  only  desires 
to  finish  his  play  like  a  problem  in  Euclid  with  the  logical 
ultimatum,  Q.E.D. 

I  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  that  so-called  realistic 
method  which  is  especially  illustrated  in  Brieux' s  Les 
Avariis  and  in  Ibsen's  Ghosts.  Realism  is,  of  course,  an 
ambiguous  word,  because  it  involves  one  or  two  assump- 
tions which  are  not  always  verifiable.  There  is  no  greater 
realism  in  describing  details  which  most  people  would  pass 
over  as  either  unsavoury  or  unnecessary,  than  there  is  in 
other  forms  of  dramatic  or  literary  art  which  do  not  think 
it  necessary  to  emphasise  the  sordid  or  the  unclean.  In 
the  one  case  as  in  the  other  the  artist  is  making  use  of  that 
principle  which  is  his  by  nature,  the  principle  of  selection. 
He  uses  the  materials  which  are  necessary  for  his  purpose 
and  he  disregards  the  others.  An  artist  painting  a  picture 
groups  together  various  elements,  not  so  much  copying 
Nature  as  adapting  Nature  to  his  uses.  A  dramatist  who 
would  be  called  romantic  proceeds  in  precisely  the  same 
fashion,  throwing  into  high  relief  the  figures  of  his  hero 

1  Cf.  Jules  Lemaltre's  Impressions  de  TMdtre,  10th  series,  pp.  278  etfoll 


EUGENE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST        231 

and  his  heroine  and  emphasising  the  sentiments  and 
emotions  appropriate  in  such  cases.  But  what  we  some- 
times forget  is  that  the  so-called  realist  has  a  precisely 
similar  method  of  working.  He,  too,  is  occupied  with 
arranging  a  picture,  and  in  order  to  bring  out  his  scheme 
he  emphasises  certain  points  and  allows  others  to  recede 
into  the  background.  He  uses  his  characters,  not  like 
independent  personages,  but  rather  as  vehicles  for  illustrat- 
ing the  purpose  or  lesson  which  he  has  in  mind.  From 
this  point  of  view  the  realist  is  just  as  unreal  as  the  romantic 
dramatist.  Or  to  put  the  matter  otherwise,  he  has  the  same 
justification  which  the  artist  claims  for  himself,  selection 
being  of  the  very  essence  of  the  artist's  problem. 

We  must  not,  therefore,  take  it  for  granted  that  because 
Brieux  wrote  the  play  which  in  the  English  translation  is 
called  Damaged  Goods,  or  because  Ibsen  wrote  a  play  which 
is  called  Ghosts,  they  are  necessarily  nearer  the  ultimate 
truth  of  things  than,  let  us  say,  Victor  Hugo  with  his 
romantic  drama.  We  call  it  realism  when  the  materials 
are  sordid,  and  we  call  it  romantic  when  the  materials  are 
sentimental  or  emotional.  But  the  artist  is  a  free  worker ; 
he  can  manipulate  as  he  desires.  Even  the  man  whom 
we  might  call  the  most  thorough-going  of  realists  probably 
has  some  dream  or  ideal  which,  tarnished  as  it  may  be, 
yet  has  in  his  eyes  all  the  value  of  the  beautiful.  The 
artist  is  always  the  votary  of  the  Beautiful,  however  he 
may  construe  it.  The  question  of  truth  hardly  enters  into 
these  considerations.  The  dream  of  the  artist  is  always 
true  of  him,  and  true  for  all  those  who  see  eye  to  eye  with 
him  in  his  work. 

To  me,  I  confess,  the  whole  question  of  what  we  vaguely 
call  realism  ought  to  be  envisaged  from  another  standpoint. 
If  we  look  at  the  matter  historically,  knowing  as  we  do 
that  in  the  history  of  art  progress  is  made  by  a  series  of 
spiral  actions  and  reactions,  we  discover  that  romance 
pursued  up  to  a  certain  point  produces  a  feeling  of  satiety 
or  unreality,  and  therefore  naturally  gives  place  to  an 
opposite  theory  which  calls  itself  logical  and  scientific. 
After  Victor  Hugo  came  Zola,  Ibsen,  and  Brieux,  just  as 
in  an  earlier  stage  of  the  process  of  development  the  remote- 
ness and  frigidity  of  the  classical  drama  gave  place  to 
Victor  Hugo's  romantic  enthusiasm.  The  important 
thing,  however,  to  notice  is,  that  the  different  artistic  atti- 
tudes correspond  to  different  periods  in  the  evolution  of 


232    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

a  nation  or  of  humanity  at  large.  Nothing  is  clearer  than 
the  fact  that  what  we  sometimes  call  the  Victorian  out- 
look, that  is  to  say,  the  attitude  towards  men  and  things 
congenial  to  the  nineteenth  century,  is  in  large  measure 
superseded,  and  it  is  interesting  and  important  for  us 
to  recognise  how  the  generation  which  we  may  call  Georgian 
reacts  against  its  predecessor.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible in  the  Victorian  era  to  produce  for  the  public  plays 
like  Les  Avartts  and  Ghosts.  Why  ?  Because  the  theory 
of  art  was  different :  the  temper  of  the  public  was  different : 
the  atmosphere  was  different.  The  appeal  of  the  nineteenth 
century  was  to  the  heart :  that  of  the  twentieth  century 
is  to  logical  processes  of  the  intellect.  The  office  of  drama 
is  to  popularise,  as  it  were,  scientific  conceptions,  to  make 
use  of  scientific  principles,  to  illustrate  them  in  some 
imagined  scheme,  and  thus  to  convert  and  metamorphose 
drama  into  a  tract  for  the  times. 

In  pursuit  of  this  purpose  there  must  be  no  concealment 
or  evasion  of  the  main  issues.  We  must  not  hesitate  to 
call  a  spade  a  spade.  We  must  deal  with  matters,  not 
particularly  savoury,  but  necessary  for  purposes  of  instruc- 
tion. The  ills  of  humanity  must  be  cured  by  a  ruthless 
veracity.  Young  men  and  maidens  must  discover  the 
things  which  are  necessary  to  their  salvation.  The  veil 
must  be  torn  from  all  kinds  of  secret  conventions,  and 
the  bare  truth,  wherever  that  can  be  ascertained,  must 
be  laid  before  audiences  without  reserve  and  without 
disguise.  And  if  there  be  some  grave  and  deep-seated 
malady  which  is  afflicting  humanity,  the  dramatist  must 
not  hesitate  to  probe  the  evil  at  its  source  and  eradicate 
the  poison,  or,  at  all  events,  help  to  eradicate  the  poison, 
by  plain  and  courageous  truth-speaking.  The  romantic 
aims  of  art  must  be  left  alone  for  the  present.  Romance 
may  be  an  indestructible  element  of  humanity,  but  no 
particular  emphasis  need  at  present  be  laid  upon  it.  We 
are  occupied  with  sterner  things.  Hence,  for  a  twentieth- 
century  public,  the  dramatic  artists  who  most  nearly 
correspond  to  the  needs  and  necessities  of  the  time  must 
be  permitted  frank  speech  and  a  resolute,  almost  apostolic 
fervour  in  elucidating  social  problems  and  laying  bare 
social  sores.  And  it  is  perhaps  not  altogether  fanciful  to 
find  in  the  greater  range  granted  to  women  in  the  modern 
world,  an  influence  in  the  direction  of  plain  speaking  and 
the  exposure  of  antique  shams.  Women  desire  to  know 


EUGfiNE   BRIEUX,   MORALIST        233 

the  truth,  in  the  fervent  hope  that  the  truth  will  set  them 
free.  Men  are  apt  to  be  more  sceptical — to  echo  Pilate's 
celebrated  question. 

But  is  the  drama  the  proper  vehicle  for  the  inculcation 
of  these  moral  truths,  or  for  the  preaching  of  reforms  ? 
To  that  question  the  answer  of  the  modern  world  is  explicit. 
Every  platform  is  to  be  welcomed,  every  means  made  use 
of  to  get  hold  of  the  attention  of  the  public,  and  because 
the  stage  is  a  popular  institution  and  attracts  popular 
audiences,  it  is  to  be  utilised  as  fully  and  as  unreservedly 
as  any  other  mode  of  appeal.  The  stage,  no  doubt,  has 
great  advantages  in  this  respect.  It  is  better  than  the 
pamphlet,  the  tract,  most  kinds  of  propaganda  literature, 
and  other  devices  of  the  printed  page.  Print  only  appeals 
to  the  eye,  but  actors  in  movement  on  a  stage  appeal  not 
only  to  the  eye  but  to  the  ear.  Moreover,  it  is  maintained 
that  the  stage -appeal  to  the  eye  is  of  a  more  illustrative 
quality,  more  attractive,  more  persuasive,  more  seductive, 
than  anything  that  can  be  got  out  of  a  book.  Or  shall  we 
utilise  the  pulpit  ?  But  sermons  are  not  so  widely  effective 
in  their  appeal  as  plays.  They  are  directed  to  a  smaller 
audience  to  begin  with,  while  the  audience  itself  is  of  a 
somewhat  special  kind  and  by  no  means  representative  of 
the  public  at  large.  Thus  the  modern  world  seems  to  have 
decided  that,  whatever  may  be  the  subjects  ripe  for  dis- 
cussion, the  dramatist  has  quite  as  much  qualification  to 
deal  with  them  as  the  politician,  the  social  philosopher, 
or  any  one  else.  And  the  range  of  subjects  is  undoubtedly 
large.  If  we  take  any  social  structure  which  has  been  in 
existence  for  a  good  many  years,  we  shall  find  a  series  of 
defects  which  become  more  obvious  and  patent  as  time 
goes  on.  Certain  laws  have  lost  their  usefulness  or  be- 
come actually  oppressive;  certain  customs,  which  no 
doubt  had  their  justification  in  the  past,  have  developed 
into  veritable  curses;  power  has  been  arrogated  by  a  few 
tyrannical  hands,  as,  for  instance,  the  power  of  the  parent 
over  the  child,  the  power  of  the  judge  over  the  criminal,1 
the  power  of  money  and  of  the  Press  over  all.2  When  there 
are  so  many  topics  inviting  discussion,  why  should  the 
dramatist  confine  himself  to  mainly  sexual  interests  ?  Why 
should  the  eternal  "  triangle  "  between  husband,  wife,  and 
lover  be  the  sole  theme  to  be  witnessed  on  the  boards? 

1  Cf.  Galsworthy's  play,  Justice. 
2  Cf.  Arnold  Bennett's  play,  What  the  Public  Wants. 


234    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

There  are  all  sorts  of  vital  problems  dealing  with  educa- 
tion, government,  public  health,  population,  marriage, 
divorce,  parental  duties,  religion.  There  is  no  lack  of 
interest  in  these,  and  the  modern  world  has  decided  that 
any  and  every  subject  shall  be  treated  frankly  and  with 
sincerity. 

That  at  least  is  clearly  Brieux's  view,  and  he  has  illus- 
trated it  in  his  practice.  Thus  the  dramatist  becomes  in 
a  proper  sense  a  public  servant.  He  cannot,  of  course, 
help  his  own  idiosyncrasies.  He  has  his  own  views,  pecu- 
liar, it  may  be,  to  himself,  or  shared  only  by  a  relatively 
small  section  of  society.  His  vision  may  be  distorted  by 
all  kinds  of  prejudices.  These  may  be  disqualifications  for 
his  task,  but  they  do  not  in  the  modern  judgment  affect 
the  urgency  of  the  task  itself.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
dramatist  also  to  see  that  the  special  didactic  interest  does 
not  overpower  every  other  dramatic  factor,  such  as  con- 
struction, analysis  of  character,  artistic  appeal.  The 
older  theory,  that  art  exists  merely  for  the  sake  of  art,  is 
discredited  nowadays.  In  France,  at  all  events,  the  view 
held  by  the  serious  dramatist  has  made  numerous  con- 
verts. Art  is  to  have  a  distinctly  moral  aim,  and  Brieux 
in  this  is  merely  reflecting  a  vast  amount  of  contemporary 
opinion  in  his  own  country  as  well  as  in  England. 

But  there  is  another  side  of  the  question.  I  have  tried 
to  depict  Brieux  as  a  man  with  a  distinct  theory  of 
dramatic  art — to  which  apparently  he  does  not  always 
adhere — as  a  moralist,  as  an  anxious  and  indefatigable 
reformer  of  abuses,  and  above  all  as  a  realist  who  desires 
to  paint  things  as  he  sees  them,  and  not  to  allow  the  play 
of  fancy,  imagination,  or  the  instinctive  love  of  romance 
to  interfere  with  the  work  in  hand.  What  I  have  not 
shown  is  Brieux  as  an  artist,  and  that  for  the  best  possible 
reason,  because  it  is  precisely  on  the  artistic  side  that 
Brieux  is  deficient.  He  is  an  artist  sometimes  in  his 
management  of  scenes,  or  in  his  treatment  of  character. 
But  that  does  not  interfere  with  the  main  contention,  that 
if  and  where  he  fails,  he  fails  as  an  artist.  The  reason  is 
plain.  To  him  art  is  an  instrument,  a  means  to  effect 
something,  and  art  does  not  admit  of  being  used  in  this 
fashion.  It  is  an  end  in  itself  and  cannot  be  subordinated 
to  alien  pressures.  If  Brieux  were  asked  what,  in  his 
opinion,  was  the  end  of  the  dramatic  art  which  he  prac- 
tised, he  would,  if  he  were  consistent  with  his  theory,  say 


EUGENE  BRIEUX,  MORALIST        235 

that  it  subserved  ends  of  morality,  that  it  could  be  used  to 
enforce  a  moral,  that  it  could  instruct  and  edify  humanity. 
But  as  I  understand  the  matter,  art  can  never  run  patiently 
under  the  yoke  of  something  which  is  not  art.  Art  has 
nothing  specially  to  do  with  morality.  The  highest  art  is 
always  moral,  because  it  is  in  accordance  with  the  great 
laws  which  govern  the  world,  but  that  is  an  inseparable 
accident,  no  part  of  the  essence  of  Art.  To  the  query, 
'  What  is  the  end  of  Art?"  there  is,  I  think,  only  one 
answer.  It  is  delight,  in  the  widest  and  broadest  sense  of 
the  term.  It  exists  to  make  us  feel  more  intensely  the 
fervour,  the  joy,  the  exhilaration  of  life,  it  makes  us  see, 
it  purges  our  eyes  from  their  blindness,  it  opens  to  us  new 
realms  of  beauty  and  truth.  If  you  look  at  the  practice 
of  great  artists,  you  cannot  say  off-hand  what  particular 
ends  they  subserve.  But  you  can  say  of  all  artists  worthy 
of  the  name,  especially  the  great  dramatic  artists,  like  the 
Greek  tragedians  and  Shakespeare,  that  they  add  to  our 
delight,  that  they  open  our  eyes,  extend  our  field  of  vision, 
and  make  us  understand  all  the  vast  and  intricate  interests 
of  humanity  and  life. 

Thus  the  great  charge  one  has  to  bring  against  Dra- 
matic Realism  is,  that  while  it  is  rarely  artistic,  it  is  not 
always  real.  Art  can  never  be  made  scientific,  and  it  only 
commits  suicide  when  it  attempts  to  base  itself  on  a 
strictly  scientific  procedure.  When  one  says  that  Art  is 
re-presentation,  one  has  said  all  that  is  necessary.  Art  is 
not  presentation,  that  is  the  work  of  the  photograph.  It 
is  re-presentation — that  is,  presentation  bathed  in  the 
colours  of  the  artist's  personality,  and  suffused  with  his 
proper  idiosyncrasy. 


"OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN" 

EURIPIDES  may  be  said  to  have  founded  the  school  of 
dramatic  realism.  He  also  gives  us  piquant  hints  as  to 
the  limits  of  realism  as  an  interpretation  of  life.  His 
position,  his  scope,  his  intention  have  been  the  subjects 
of  much  controversy — ranging  from  Aristotle's  admira- 
tion, "  the  most  tragic  of  poets,"  and  Mrs.  Browning's 
tribute  to  "  Our  Euripides,  the  human,"  down  to  the  scorn 
of  Walter  Savage  Landor  and  the  vitriolic  abuse  of  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne.  On  the  whole  the  ancient  world 
admired  him  much  more  than  the  modern  world  seems 
inclined  to  do.  SchlegeFs  criticism  of  him  in  his  Theatre 
of  the  Greeks  is  childish  in  its  petulance  and  injustice.  On 
the  other  hand,  certain  English  scholars — Dr.  Verrall  and 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  for  instance,  to  mention  only 
two  names — are  quite  prepared  to  concede  to  him  the 
very  highest  honours. 

Let  us  ask  ourselves  first — What  is  it  precisely  that 
Euripides  did  ?  To  that  the  reply  in  the  broadest  and 
simplest  fashion  is  that  he  altered  the  dramatic  formula, 
undermined  the  axioms  and  postulates  of  his  predecessors, 
and  challenged  the  prejudices,  religious  and  ethical,  of 
the  more  conservative  of  his  fellow-citizens.  If  ever 
there  was  a  man  determined  epater  les  bourgeois — to  shock 
the  respectability  of  the  middle  class — it  was  Euripides. 
It  was  nothing  less  than  a  revolution  at  which  he  aimed, 
a  revolution  of  thought  about  things  human  and  divine. 
He  was  a  pupil  of  Anaxagoras,  a  daring  physical  philosopher 
who  suffered  for  his  temerity  in  calling  the  sun  a  molten 
mass  of  metal  :  he  was  a  friend  of  Socrates  who  had  to 
drink  the  cup  of  hemlock  for  introducing  new  gods.  And 
he  was  a  silent,  uncommunicative,  solitary  man  who 
loved  birds  and  the  sea,  loved  working  in  a  cave  at  Salamis, 
but  eschewed  the  companionship  of  his  fellows;  who 
pondered  the  deepest  problems  of  life  and  suggested  by 
means  of  his  dramatic  art  the  gravest  doubts  about  the 

236 


4  OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'     237 

divine  denizens  of  Olympus.  Remember,  too  that  this 
recluse,  who  was  one  of  the  first  men  to  collect  a  library, 
only  won  the  first  prize  five  times.  And  yet  he  wrote 
poems  so  rememberable  that  Athenian  captives  in  the 
stone  quarries  of  Syracuse  gained  their  freedom  by  reciting 
them  to  their  captors  and  on  their  return  to  Athens  sought 
out  the  old  man  to  thank  him  for  their  recovered  liberty. 
He  did  not  write  for  the  people,  but  for  students;  and 
yet  his  dramas  were  so  well  known  that  Aristophanes 
could  be  sure  that  his  jeering  allusions  to  the  Euripidean 
texts  could  be  appreciated  by  a  popular  audience.  Two 
other  facts  about  him  may  be  recalled.  He  was  forced 
to  leave  Athens,  where  his  notorious  scepticism  was  bringing 
him  into  trouble,  and  he  then  wrote  in  retirement  for  the 
Macedonian  court  of  Archelaus  a  drama  on  the  new  cult 
of  Dionysus,  apparently  full  of  reverence,  which  no  one 
has  been  able  thoroughly  to  understand  from  that  day  to 
this.  Was  he  recanting  his  early  scepticism  ?  We  do 
not  know. 

The  most  succinct  way  of  explaining  what  he  did  is 
to  say,  as  was  said  in  ancient  times,  that  he  drew  men 
and  women  not  as  they  ought  to  be,  but  as  they  are. 
Now,  whenever  a  dramatist  elects  to  portray  mankind  as 
it  is,  he  creates  a  revolution  and  is  sure  to  be  called  a 
cynic.  Unscientific  artists — some  artists — are  a  generous 
folk,  and  they  love  to  adorn  the  characters  they  draw 
with  all  kinds  of  trappings  and  decorative  clothes,  some- 
times disguising  the  real  and  essential  elements  in  the 
process.  So  when  our  reformer  insists  on  taking  off  their 
clothes  and  exhibits  men  and  women  in  their  nudity,  all 
kinds  of  unpleasant  revelations  come  to  light,  and  the 
reformer  is  styled  a  morose  satirist  and  eventually,  per- 
haps, a  dangerous  atheist.  So  it  happened  in  the  times 
of  Euripides,  as  also  it  happened  in  the  times  of  Balzac 
and  Zola  and  Ibsen.  The  world  as  depicted  by  Dickens 
is  very  different  from  the  world  as  it  appeared  to  Thack- 
eray. Humanity  in  the  plays  of  Victor  Hugo  cuts  a  very 
different  figure  from  humanity  in  the  plays  of  Dumas 
fils,  Augier,  Hervieu,  and  Brieux.  And  when  JSschylus 
thundered  his  iambics  and  his  dithyrambs  he  gave  to 
his  heroes  and  heroines  a  stature  as  of  the  gods;  while 
Euripides  was  content  to  garb  his  dramatis  personse  with 
rags  so  that  the  bare  bones  of  their  humanity  might  be 
visible  to  all  spectators. 


238     OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Let  us  take  an  example  or  two.  The  Oresteian  legend  is 
well  known — how  Agamemnon,  returning  from  Troy,  was 
murdered  by  his  wife  Clytemnestra,  and  how  Agamemnon's 
children  Orestes  and  Electra  avenged  the  crime  by  killing 
Clytemnestra  and  her  paramour,  JSgisthus.  Electra  is  the 
title  of  one  of  Euripides'  plays — one  of  the  most  original 
in  treatment,  so  original,  indeed,  that  it  has  been  found 
shocking  by  various  critics.  According  to  the  earlier  legends 
Electra  was  a  fine  exponent  of  a  blood-feud,  a  heroic 
character,  a  king's  daughter.  She  came  of  a  lineage  of 
heroes,  and,  indeed,  exercised  an  inspiring  influence  over 
her  neurotic  brother  Orestes  in  the  execution  of  the  deed 
of  vengeance  against  ^Egisthus.  Euripides  with  these 
facts  before  him  began  by  introducing  a  wholly  novel 
fact  which  he  probably  invented  himself.  Because  the 
guilty  pair  at  Argos  desired  to  make  themselves  safe 
against  popular  execration  Electra  was  compelled  to  be 
affianced  to  an  ordinary  yeoman,  so  that  any  children 
born  of  her  might  have  a  plebeian  taint  and  so  be  the 
less  likely  to  foment  rebellion.  In  the  play,  therefore, 
Electra  is  seen  clad  in  shabby  clothes  working  at  menial 
tasks  in  order  to  keep  up  the  humble  home  of  her  husband, 
who,  on  his  part,  is  portrayed  as  a  plain  and  honest  man 
only  too  much  exercised  how  to  fulfil  the  onerous  respon- 
sibility of  being  wedded  to  a  king's  daughter.  The 
marriage  was,  of  course,  no  marriage.  That  at  least  we 
might  expect  from  the  natural  awe  and  reverence  sur- 
rounding members  of  a  royal  house.  But  the  mise  en 
scene  of  the  play — the  humble  home,  the  menial  tasks, 
the  loyal,  anxious  peasant  husband,  all  help  the  dramatist 
in  carrying  out  his  conception  on  broad  and  simple  lines 
of  human  nature.  And  how  is  Electra  herself  portrayed  ? 
You  can  imagine  how  a  playwright  of  a  sentimental  turn 
might  paint  the  affair.  We  should  have  great  stress  laid 
upon  the  indignity  of  the  heroine — a  proud  soul  fretting 
herself  in  obscurity  and  relative  indigence  bearing  her 
burden  with  no  little  difficulty  and  travail  of  her  soul. 
Touches  like  these,  of  course,  are  to  be  found  in  Euripides' 
play — and  I  may  remark  in  passing  that  the  portraiture 
of  her  husband  shows  Euripides'  sympathy  with  honest 
yeomen  who  are  upright  and  loyal,  respectful,  and  punc- 
tilious, assiduous  in  attention  and  yet  possessing  an 
innate  nobility  of  their  own.  But  Electra?  She  is 
assuredly  no  heroine  as  uEschylus  and  Sophocles  painted 


6  OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN5    239 

her.  She  is  just  a  woman  placed  in  an  unfortunate  posi- 
tion, bearing  about  with  her  all  the  marks  of  a  victim  of  j 
an  unscrupulous  tyranny.  She  is  haunted  by  her  past 
experience,  poisoned  by  it,  embittered.  Intolerant  of 
poverty,  she  is  getting  to  middle  age,  unpopular  amongst 
her  fellow-citizens,  unkissed,  unkind,  unmated,  as  her 
very  name  indicates,  though  faithful  to  the  death,  as  her 
brother  testifies,  never  ceasing  to  remember  the  debt 
she  owes  to  her  dead  father.  Observe  particularly  that 
she  is  not  made  a  sympathetic  character.  She  is  too 
hard  and  intense.  Like  her  mother,  Clytemnestra,  she 
is  soured  by  disappointment.  Clytemnestra,  it  is  true, 
seems  to  be  a  prey  to  remorse  and  anxious  to  atone.  Electra 
has  no  weaknesses  of  that  kind ;  it  is  her  business  to  urge 
on  her  brother,  to  fortify  his  fainting  soul  and  drive  him 
resolutely  to  the  great  purpose  of  revenge.  In  this  aspect, 
therefore,  it  is  clear  that  Euripides'  play  is  a  protest 
against  classical  standards  and  canons.1  The  dramatist  is 
concerned  to  analyse  character  in  a  real  human  being,  to 
discover  how  any  woman  placed  in  such  circumstances 
would  be  likely  to  feel  and  act. 

Or,  take  another  instance  of  Euripides'  realism.  I  am 
choosing  on  purpose  familiar  plays,  because  they  not 
only  illustrate  the  Euripidean  method  but  deal  with  well- 
known  stories.  Let  us,  then,  glance  for  a  moment  at  the 
play  called  Alcestis,  of  which  the  heroine  is  a  noble  wife 
who  died  for  her  husband's  sake  in  order  that  he  might 
enjoy  a  few  more  years  of  his  much-desired  existence. 
The  ordinary  conception  of  this  husband,  Admetus,  was 
that  of  a  man  who  was  the  friend  of  the  gods,  whom 
Apollo  was  supposed  to  befriend  and  to  whom  Hercules 
might  appeal  as  a  host  capable  of  regal  hospitality.  To 
Admetus,  therefore,  as  the  friend  of  the  gods  was  given 
the  option  of  avoiding  death  by  procuring  the  death  of 
one  of  his  kinsfolk.  Alcestis  filled  the  breach,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  current  Greek  conception  nobly  fulfilled  the 
proper  feminine  task  of  subserving  masculine  ambition. 
How  does  Euripides  treat  this  fable  ?  He  does  full  justice 
to  the  character  of  the  wife  Alcestis,  but  he  fastens  his 
criticism  on  that  of  the  husband.  What  sort  of  man  was 
Admetus  ?  The  answer  for  a  psychologist  is  not  difficult. 

1  It  is  possible  that  Sophocles'  Electra  was  produced  after  that  of 
Euripides  and  was  intended  to  be  an  answer  or  antidote  to  a  too  realistic 
portrait. 


240     OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

Admetus  was  one  of  the  most  thoroughly  selfish  men 
who  ever  lived,  and  one  of  the  meanest.  He  allowed  his 
wife  to  die  for  him,  and  he  had  a  bitter  controversy  with 
his  father,  whom  he  charged  with  pusillanimity  for  not 
offering  his  life  to  save  his  son.  Even  in  the  midst  of  the 
funeral  ceremonies,  when  Alcestis  was  being  carried  out 
for  burial,  Admetus  had  not  the  frank  honesty  to  reveal 
to  his  visitor  Hercules  how  inconvenient  was  his  arrival 
at  the  house  of  mourning.  He  must  keep  up  his  reputa- 
tion for  hospitality.  He  had  such  a  low  notion  of  friend- 
ship that  he  was  unable  to  take  Hercules  into  his  confidence. 
He  forwarded  with  most  indecent  haste  all  the  necessary 
preparations  for  the  sepulchre.  Not  one  jot  or  tittle  of 
the  criticisms  which  might  be  passed  upon  this  recreant 
hero  is  omitted  by  Euripides.  Hercules  in  single  combat 
with  death  rescues  Alcestis  from  her  fate  and  brings 
her  back  again  to  her  home.  We  feel  how  little  sym- 
pathy Euripides  has  for  this  happy  ending,  and  the 
suggestion  has  been  advanced  that  the  dramatist  intended 
to  hint  that  Alcestis  never  died  at  all  but  only  went  off 
into  a  swoon  from  which  she  was  promptly  awakened 
by  Hercules.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  the  student 
can  have  no  doubt  whatsoever  as  to  the  estimate  of 
Admetus'  personality.  Treated  as  a  real  character,  not 
as  part  of  a  heroic  legend,  he  stands  out  in  all  his  petty 
egotism,  a  man  whom  other  men  ought  to  despise,  gaining 
at  the  close  a  reward  which  he  did  not  deserve,  and  blessed 
with  the  possession  of  a  wife  whose  shoe's  latchet  he  was 
not  worthy  to  unloose.  I  ought  to  add  that  the  whole 
play  is  somewhat  of  a  stumbling-block  to  critics  just 
because  it  has  a  happy  ending  and  because  it  exhibits 
here  and  there  comic  elements,  like  Hercules'  drunken- 
ness, which  seem  out  of  place  in  a  tragedy.  It  may  have 
taken  the  place  of  the  Satyric  play  with  which  the  ordinary 
trilogy  of  dramas  usually  ended.  Or,  indeed,  Alcestis 
may  be  one  of  the  earliest  specimens  in  dramatic  history 
of  what  we  in  modern  times  would  call  a  comedy,  with 
scenes  of  comic  relief  and  a  denouement  of  happiness  and 
mutual  congratulation  for  every  one  concerned. 

A  good  deal  more  is  involved  in  this  new  reading  of 
ancient  characters  than  meets  a  superficial  glance.  It 
may  seem  to  us  to  matter  very  little  whether  Electra  was 
drawn  as  an  ordinary  woman  or  as  an  antique  heroine; 
or  whether  the  chief  stress  in  the  case  of  Admetus  was 


'OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'    241 

laid  on  his  friendship  with  the  gods  or  on  the  utter  selfish- 
ness of  his  conduct.  It  matters  psychologically,  of  course, 
for  only  when  the  aureole  is  taken  from  the  brow  and  the 
festal  garb  is  exchanged  for  homespun  is  the  man  to  be 
discovered  in  his  human  elements,  as  apart  from  a  glorified 
puppet  or  coloured  saint  in  the  cathedral  window.  But 
in  Euripides'  case  we  have  indications  of  a  religious, 
moral,  and  social  revolution  actually  taking  place  before 
his  eyes  and  largely  aided  by  Socrates,  Anaxagoras, 
politicians  of  the  day  and  thinkers  and  poets  like  himself. 
Aristophanes  is  always  sighing  for  the  good  old  days  and 
regretting  the  absence  of  warriors  who  fought  at  Marathon. 
It  is  as  though  Wellington  in  his  later  years  looked  back 
to  the  stout  men-at-arms  who  fought  that  "  damned 
near-run  thing "  at  Waterloo.  -<Eschylus  belonged  in 
heart  and  spirit  to  the  Marathon-fighter  days,  when  men 
reverenced  the  gods,  accepted  the  old  legends  as  gospel, 
and  were  decently  respectful  to  their  elders  and  betters. 
In  Euripides'  time,  however,  a  new  generation  had  arisen 
"  which  knew  not  Joseph  "—dialecticians,  sophists,  pinch- 
beck politicians,  litigious  busybodies,  sceptics  who  doubted 
about  everything,  atheists  who  believed  in  nothing — in 
fact,  the  whole  crew  pictured  by  Aristophanes  as  belonging 
to  the  new  age  of  unsettlement  and  chaos.  Euripides 
himself  was  part  of  this  new  age,  for  he  had  studied  the 
new  philosophy  and  wrestled  in  the  spirit  of  the  rationalist 
with  moral  and  religious  problems.  ^Eschylus  was  a  ^ 
metaphysician  whose  task  it  was  to  reconcile  men  with 
the  ways  of  Heaven.  Euripides  was  an  analytic  thinker  \ 
who  tried  in  vain  to  reconcile  the  ways  of  Heaven  with  j 
doubting  and  inquiring  men.  To  JSschylus  the  existence 
and  reality  of  gods  were  a  postulate,  an  axiom.  To  I 
Euripides  the  existence  of  such  things  as  pain  and  sorrow 
and  evil  seemed  to  preclude  the  hypothesis  of  Divine 
Providence.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Euripides  with  his1* 
scepticism  and  ^Eschylus  with  his  faith  eventually  arrived 
at  much  the  same  conclusion,  both  accepting  in  the  long 
run  a  vague  pantheistic  creed  with  Zeus  as  the  primal 
source  of  all  being.  But  the  method  of  approach  was 
entirely  different  in  the  two  cases,  the  later  poet  com- 
mencing with  man  as  his  starting-point,  and  the  earlier 
with  the  gods  as  the  foundation  of  his  structure.  Hence 
the  results  also  were  entirely  different,  ^Eschylus  drawing 
heroes  and  heroines,  and  Euripides  painting  ordinary 


242    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

men  and  women.  Thus,  if  Clytemnestra  in  the  Agamem- 
non is  a  magnificent  figure  of  evil  clothed  in  purple  pomp, 
Clytemnestra  in  the  Electro,  is  an  unhappy  middle-aged 
woman,  anxious  to  atone  for  her  guilty  past. 

But  Euripides  with  his  new  way  of  looking  at  things 
was  confronted  by  a  peculiar  difficulty  in  constructing  his 
plays.  The  traditional  method,  the  method  of  ^schylus 
and  Sophocles,  was  to  exhibit  the  working  of  the  gods 
in  human  affairs,  showing  how  sin  inevitably  brought 
its  punishment  according  to  divine  law.  Moreover,  the 
dramas  themselves  as  enacted  in  Athens  were  produced 
under  the  aegis,  as  it  were,  of  Apollo  and  Dionysius  and 
Athena,  and  dedicated  in  a  certain  fashion  to  their  glorifi- 
cation. How,  then,  was  Euripides,  with  his  scanty  respect 
for  Olympus  and  his  distaste  for  superstition,  to  recom- 
mend his  plays  to  Athenian  audiences,  the  majority  of 
whom  were  accustomed  to  a  traditional  method  and 
were  guided,  no  doubt,  by  pardonable  prejudices?  His 
plan  was  an  unhappy  one,  but  we  may  admit  that  the 
dilemma  was  serious.  Ancient  and  modern  critics  have 
alike  fallen  foul  of  his  prologues  and  his  epilogues,  because 
they  have  little  or  no  connection  with  his  plot,  being  for 
the  most  part  formal  explanatory  matter  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  god  or  a  goddess  and  dramatic  devices  of  the 
nature  of  a  deus  ex  machina  to  bring  the  play  to  a  con- 
clusion. The  prologue  is  an  index  of  events,  the  epilogue 
is  a  tag,  summarily  arresting  further  action.  Both  are 
otiose  to  the  main  thesis.  What  was  Euripides  to  do  ? 
If  theatrical  custom  demanded  the  introduction  of  the 
gods  and  he  had  the  misfortune  not  to  believe  in  a  Pan- 
theon of  magnified  and  non-natural  beings  guilty  of  every 
moral  depravity,  his  only  resource,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
was  to  pay  lip-service  to  Apollo  and  Athena  in  a  prologue, 
allow  these  conventional  deities  to  end  his  play — which 
had  got  itself  into  such  a  tangle  that  it  could  only  be  ended 
abruptly — and  throw  all  his  interest  and  his  dramatic 
skill  into  the  portraiture  of  character  and  the  represent- 
ation of  actual  and  real  human  creatures.  In  other 
words,  the  introduction  of  the  gods  was  nothing  but — 
the  word  is  inevitable  nowadays — a  "  camouflage,"  an 
elaborate  piece  of  humbug  to  satisfy  uneasy  consciences 
while  the  more  instructed  spirits  would  know  how  to 
estimate  it  at  its  proper  measure.  On  any  other  inter- 
pretation Euripides  can  only  be  considered  a  bad  artist 


'OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'    243 

for  trying  to  combine  incompatibles  and  for  being  so 
clumsy  in  construction.1  If  he  had  a  slightly  satirical 
purpose,  at  all  events  we  may  admire  his  cleverness,  even 
though  we  may  in  a  savage  mood  call  him  a  hypocrite. 

Observe,  however,  that  we  have  already  thrown  an 
interesting  sidelight  on  dramatic  realism.  The  drawback 
of  all  realism  is  that  it  sets  the  realistic  artist  at  logger- 
heads with  an  average  audience.  The  audience  have 
their  fixed  prejudices  and  they  do  not  like  to  be  disturbed 
in  their  theatrical  habits.  They  come  to  the  theatre 
expecting  the  usual  thing,  and  when  they  receive  some- 
thing else — something  unpleasantly  new  and  provoca- 
tive— they  are  only  too  apt  to  believe  that,  having  asked 
for  bread,  they  have  been  presented  with  a  stone.  Some 
artists  sacrifice  their  principles  and  allow  themselves  to 
bow  down  in  the  house  of  Rimmon.  Others  attempt  a 
more  or  less  uneasy  compromise.  Others,  again,  skilfully 
conceal  their  intention,  as  Euripides  did,  keeping  their 
purpose  up  their  sleeve,  with  a  sly  wink  to  those  in  the 
know.  The  modern  problem  is  not,  of  course,  the  same  as 
that  which  confronted  Euripides,  but  it  is  of  similar 
import.  The  average  audience,  the  conservative  and 
conventional  theatre-goers,  want  a  happy  ending,  as 
Aristotle  long  ago  observed.  They  want  their  heroes  and 
heroines  to  be  obviously  good  people  and  their  villains  to 
be  obviously  bad  people.  They  think  that  tragedy  only 
applies  to  great  persons,  to  kings  and  tyrants,  or  at  the 
very  least  to  dukes  and  earls.  They  believe  in  "  situa- 
tions," and  desire  a  clear-cut  ending  to  the  play.  And 
your  thorough-going  realist  disappoints  them  in  every  par- 
ticular. He  will  not  give  them  happy  endings  if  the  plot 
demands  a  melancholy  conclusion.  He  will  not  give  them 
an  ending  at  all,  for  humanity  goes  on  and  life  does  not 
admit  of  such  convenient  stopping-places.  He  will  not 
make  his  characters  all  white  or  all  black,  for  there  is  a 
soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil  and  a  seed  of  potential  evil 
even  in  the  good.  Nor  will  he  confine  tragedy  to  courts 
and  baronial  halls,  but  sees  tragic  elements  in  cottages 
and  acute  drama  in  the  relations  of  quite  humble  beings. 
He  will  bring  down  his  curtain  when  he  has  had  his  say 
and  will  not  disturb  himself,  however  much  you  protest 
as  to  the  absence  of  an  artistic  finish.  And  so  realists  are 

1  This  is,  of  course,  the  view  taken  by  Dr.  Verrall  in  Euripides,  the 
Rationalist. 


244    OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

abused  until  they  can  train  their  own  audiences.  Perhaps 
Euripides  trained  his.  Ibsen,  after  much  furious  alter- 
cation, undoubtedly  succeeded  in  educating  a  school. 

Among  the  various  antagonisms  in  which  realism  stands 
towards  other  schemes  or  theories  of  art  one  of  the  obvious 
antithesis  is  between  realism  and  romance.  This  has  a 
particular  historic  significance  which  is  best  illustrated 
from  French  literature.  Victor  Hugo,  in  reaction  from 
the  cold  classical  perfection  of  Corneille  and  Racine, 
introduced  romantic  drama.  When  the  rage  had  passed 
for  bombastic  heroes  and  melodramatic  situations  the 
time  had  come  for  another  reaction — realistic  or  natural- 
istic fiction,  as  in  the  novels  of  Zola;  realistic  drama,  as 
in  the  work  of  Brieux  and  some  of  his  contemporaries. 
Thus  it  became  one  of  the  dogmas  of  the  new  naturalistic 
school  to  eschew  romance  on  the  ground  of  its  artificiality 
and  its  absurd  unreality.  But,  apart  from  this  historical 
justification,  there  is  no  intimate  or  essential  reason  why 
realism  should  exclude  romance.  Romance  enters  largely 
into  most  of  the  tragedies  and  comedies  of  life,  and  so  far 
as  we  can  see  it  is  an  integral  part  of  that  human  sen- 
sibility which  adds  colour  to  existence  while  it  exposes  us 
to  suffering.  If  you  shut  out  romance  at  the  front  door 
it  is  very  apt  to  return  by  the  back  door,  and  be  the  more 
troublesome  the  more  it  is  ignored.  There  is  no  little 
romance  in  Euripides — romance  and  sensitiveness  and 
sentiment — and  he  makes  a  strong  appeal  to  our  capacity 
for  tears.  Sunt  lacrymce  rerum  is  as  much  his  motto  as 
it  is  Virgil's.  This  comes  out  especially  in  his  treatment 
of  women  in  his  plays.  He  was  much  interested  in  women, 
a  thing  which  his  contemporaries  could  not  understand 
and  which  they  tried  to  explain  by  his  unfortunate  ex- 
perience with  two  wives.  They  said — Aristophanes  at 
least  said — that  he  was  doing  harm  to  the  cause  of  woman- 
hood, and  that  women  hated  him.  But  our  modern 
experience  enables  us  to  see  more  clearly.  We  know  how 
often  avowed  feminists  are  accused  of  doing  harm  to  the 
very  sex  they  try  to  defend.  Emancipated  womanhood 
is  held  by  conservatives  and  reactionaries  to  be  a  wronged 
womanhood.  But  here  Euripides  is  on  modern  lines. 
Both  he  and  Plato  recognised  that  Greek  society  did 
serious  harm  to  women.  An  imperfect  ideal  of  woman  is 
a  disease  of  which,  perhaps  more  than  anything  else, 
ancient  civilisation  perished.  Let  us  do  honour  to  the 


'OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'     ij45 

Greek  philosopher  and  the  Greek  dramatist  for  a  perspi- 
cacity denied  to  the  men  of  their  age — even  to  a  man  so 
highly  intellectual  as  Pericles.  "EQ%exai  njua  yvvcuxeiq) 
ydvei.  "  Honour  comes  to  the  race  of  women."  1  It 
preludes  a  triumph  which  was  only  to  be  realised  centuries 
afterwards. 

The  play  Medea,  from  which  I  have  just  given  a  quota- 
tion, is  a  veritable  tragedy,  but  the  treatment  of  the 
heroine  is  on  the  lines  of  romance.  It  is  a  very  striking 
piece  of  work,  belonging  to  Euripides'  early  years  of 
authorship,  and — perhaps  because  of  its  very  originality — 
it  only  won  a  third  prize.  The  professed  and  orthodox 
moral  is  that  a  marriage  between  a  Greek  (Jason)  and  a 
barbarian  princess  from  Colchis  (Medea)  is  no  marriage. 
But  to  look  for  a  moral  at  all  in  the  case  of  a  highly  imagi- 
native and  artistic  creation  like  this  is  a  pedantic  piece  of 
supererogation.  It  is  as  though  we  took  the  play  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet  in  our  hands  and  solemnly  declared  that 
the  lesson  to  be  learnt  from  it  was  that  "  violent  delights 
have  violent  ends."  I  forget  whether  Gervinus  draws 
this  moral,  but  he  is  quite  capable  of  it,  and  I  have  little 
doubt  that  some  of  the  academic  editors  of  Euripides 
have  duly  extricated  this  gem  of  wisdom  about  foreign 
marriages  from  the  play  of  Medea.  The  real  interest  lies 
in  the  wonderfully-drawn  portrait  of  the  heroine,  while 
the  whole  story  depicts  the  fading  of  a  romance,  the  end 
of  a  riotous  honeymoon  of  passion  and  battle.  Jason 
leads  his  Argonauts  to  win  the  Golden  Fleece  past  the 
Symplegades  or  clashing  rocks  to  the  shores  of  Colchis, 
and  though,  indeed,  he  wins  the  prize  of  his  enterprise 
his  chief  conquest  is  the  victory  of  the  Princess  Medea. 
Without  her  love  he  would  have  been  powerless;  with 
her  aid  he  surmounts  every  peril.  And  she,  poor,  in- 
fatuated fool,  with  all  her  wild  exuberance  and  barbarous 
frenzy,  escapes  with  him  only  to  discover  that  passion 
yields  but  a  Dead  Sea  fruit  and  the  end  thereof  is  dust 
and  ashes.  Medea  is  a  typical  villainess — a  savage, 
untamed  animal.  She  is  prodigal  of  her  crimes :  she 
deceives  her  father,  poisons  the  dragon  that  keeps  watch 
and  ward  over  the  treasure,  stabs  her  brother  Absyrtus, 
lures  Pelias  to  his  death,  kills  Creon  and  his  daughter, 
and  murders  her  children.  She  did  it  for  love.  Never 
did  a  woman  so  resolutely  accept  the  maxim  "  All  for  love 
1  Eurip.,  Med,,  419. 


246     OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN   INSTANCES 

and  the  world  well  lost."  Euripides  takes  a  character 
like  this  and  transforms  it  into  a  wonderful  presentment 
of  a  woman  scorned.  Medea  becomes  veritably  human — 
I  was  almost  going  to  say  sympathetic — in  the  process. 
She  is  a  Gorgon,  a  Fury,  a  Valkyrie,  but  you  cannot  for 
the  life  of  you  hate  and  condemn  her.  No  wonder  that 
the  chorus,  who  ought  to  detest  so  fierce  a  representative 
of  a  barbarian  race,  take  her  side  in  the  controversy  and 
keep  her  fatal  secrets.  We  cannot  forgive  her  for  mur- 
dering her  children.  And  yet,  and  yet — when  in  a  mar- 
vellous bit  of  stage-craft  Euripides  depicts  her  as  suddenly 
bursting  into  tears  over  the  children  she  is  going  to  sacri- 
fice— o>£  agTidaxQvi;  elfu  nai  (popov  ntea1 — well,  the  tears 
are  ready  to  start  to  our  eyes.  In  his  command  of  pathos 
Euripides  is  irresistible,  and  probably  that  is  why  Aristotle 
called  him  the  most  tragic  of  poets.  Nor  is  Jason  less 
admirable  as  a  study.  We  feel  that  to  him,  a  characteristic 
Hellene,  woman's  love  is  of  little  account,  and  that  Medea 
in  the  midst  of  a  Greek  civilisation  is  frankly  a  bore.  The 
love  of  his  lifetime  was  not  Medea  or  any  other  woman, 
but  his  stout  ship  Argo,  a  fallen  timber  from  which  is 
said  to  have  ultimately  killed  him.  And  Medea  goes  up 
in  a  chariot  of  fire  at  the  close,  taking  the  bodies  of  her 
murdered  children  with  her.  She  had  indeed  executed 
vengeance  on  all  her  foes,  and  in  her  barbaric  fashion 
vindicated  the  right  of  womanhood. 

I  could  go  through  many  of  these  plays  in  similar 
fashion — especially  Iphigeneia  in  Taurica,  which  again 
gives  us  a  perfect  study  of  a  woman,  hardened  by  exile 
and  "  wild  with  all  regret,"  and  as  a  play  is  a  pure  romance, 
happy  ending  and  all.  But  something  should  be  said 
about  The  Trojan  Women,  which,  it  will  be  remembered, 
was  played  some  time  ago  at  the  Court  Theatre,  and 
quite  recently  produced  at  Manchester  by  Mr.  Drinkwater, 
for  it  throws  a  sidelight  on  Euripides'  relation  to  the 
current  politics  of  his  time  and  illustrates  the  nature  of 
his  humanity. 

Despite  all  their  brilliant  culture  the  Athenians  were 
not  a  humane  people.  Human,  artistic,  civilised,  the 
Athenians  were  without  any  doubt,  but  not  humane.  Or 
perhaps  they  had  grown  sharp  and  cruel,  as  a  selfish  race 
inevitably  tends  to  do  when  it  grasps  an  empire  and 
exploits  it  solely  to  its  own  advantage.  At  all  events, 
1  Eurip.,  Med.,  903. 


'OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'     247 

during  the  Peloponnesian  War  the  Athenians  committed 
several  cruel  acts,  which  Thucydides  notes  with  his  usual 
judicial  coldness — the  massacre  of  Melos,  for  instance, 
the  condemnation  of  the  Mitylenians  to  a  similar  fate,  the 
resolution  being  rescinded  next  day — to  say  nothing  of 
the  habitual  ill-treatment  of  the  slaves  in  the  silver  mines 
of  Laureion.  Xenophon,  too,  tells  us  that  during  the 
last  stages  of  the  war  the  Athenians  cut  off  the  right 
hands  of  all  the  prisoners  they  took  on  Spartan  vessels 
so  that  they  might  row  no  more  for  the  enemy.  They 
must  have  been  hard  and  tyrannical,  for  the  islanders  in 
the  ^Egean  hated  them  and  took  the  earliest  opportunities 
of  revolting  when  the  crash  of  the  Sicilian  disaster  came. 
The  Melian  affair  was  peculiarly  horrible,  for  Melos  did 
not  belong  to  the  Athenian  Confederacy  and  the  popula- 
tion was  Doric  rather  than  Ionic.  Yet  the  island  was 
ruthlessly  taken  by  storm,  the  women  and  children  sold 
into  captivity,  and  all  the  males  put  to  the  sword.  Even 
Thucydides  was  revolted  by  such  a  transaction.  He  does 
not  hesitate  to  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  Athenian  envoys 
in  their  arguments  with  the  Melians  sentiments  which  we 
should  now  call  those  of  Realpolitik  and  which  we  attribute 
to  the  military  camarilla  at  Berlin. 

But  Thucydides  was  not  the  only  one  to  be  shocked. 
The  Melian  massacre  happened  in  416  B.C.  In  the  next 
year,  415,  Euripides  brought  out  his  Trojan  Women,  a 
most  moving  and  pathetic  drama  which  was  only  placed 
second,  the  first  prize  being  won  by  a  certain  Xenocles, 
"  whoever  he  may  have  been,"  as  Julian  scornfully  says 
in  his  Varia  Historia.  He  paints  for  us  the  scene  of 
desolation  which  followed  on  the  capture  of  Troy,  the 
women  given  over  as  slaves  to  the  Greek  chieftains,  the 
little  son  of  Hector,  Astyanax,  dragged  away  to  be  thrown 
over  the  battlements,  and  the  savage  conqueror,  Menelaus, 
striding  on  the  stage  to  carry  off  Helen  as  his  prey.  Euri- 
pides sets  before  us  a  close  and  penetrating  study  of  what 
happens  when  a  beleaguered  town  falls  into  the  hands  of 
its  foes,  a  picture  of  ruin  and  agony — the  other  side,  as 
it  were,  of  the  glory  of  victory.  It  is  hardly  a  drama  :  it 
is  an  analytic  presentment  of  a  single  scene,  realistic  in 
detail,  and  poignantly  true.  There  are  four  women  in 
the  foreground :  Hecuba,  the  mother,  Cassandra,  the 
daughter,  Andromache,  Hector's  widow,  and  Helen,  the 
cause  of  all  the  trouble  and  the  curse  of  Troy.  Each  of 


248     OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

them  has  her  story  to  tell.  They  were  once  queens  and 
princesses;  now  they  are  to  be  the  slave -concubines  of 
their  captors.  Only  Helen  preserves  her  triumphant 
beauty,  for  she  has  a  touch  of  the  supernatural  about  her ; 
she  is  a  wanton,  but  divine.  In  the  background  are  all 
the  ruins  of  what  once  was  Ilium,  the  coming  to  and  fro 
of  Talthybius,  the  Greek  herald,  and  the  insolent  captains, 
the  final  crash  of  towers  which  marks  the  end  of  the  story. 
All  the  portraits  are  vividly  described  and  felt,  and  if 
Helen  is  marvellously  studied,  no  less  a  triumph  is  Mene- 
laus,  torn  between  his  brutal  rage  and  his  no  less  brutal 
passion  for  Paris's  paramour.  We  do  not  know  whether 
the  Athenians  took  the  moral  for  themselves.  But  we 
do  know  that  when  their  final  agony  came  upon  them 
and  Lysander  was  thundering  at  their  gates,  they  remem- 
bered all  that  they  had  done  to  the  Melians  and  other 
islanders,  and  trembled  to  think  what  would  be  done  to 
them.  Euripides'  realism  never  stood  him  in  better  stead 
than  when  he,  most  tragic  of  the  poets,  portrayed  the 
tragedy  of  fallen  Troy. 

Let  me  add  a  few  remarks  of  a  more  general  character. 
We  have  now  seen  what  Dramatic  Realism  meant  for 
Euripides.  He  was  a  realist  because  he  painted  men  and 
women  not  in  an  artificial  or  etherealised  fashion,  but  as 
they  are — Cromwell,  so  to  speak,  with  all  his  warts.  How 
far  it  is  possible  for  any  artist  to  be  so  purely  objective 
is  a  grave  question,  with  which  I  do  not  at  present  deal. 
The  artist,  I  may  observe,  cannot  help  or  avoid  his  own 
idiosyncrasies  —  he  cannot  jump  off  his  own  shadow. 
Let  that  pass  for  the  moment.  Euripides  is  a  realist 
because  he  will  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  purple 
pomps  and  trappings  of  tragedy.  Tragedy  itself  can  be 
discovered  in  humble  circumstances  in  the  ordinary 
relations  of  human  beings  to  one  another.  Therefore  the 
gods  and  goddesses  are  figured  by  Euripides  in  a  purely 
rationalistic  way,  suggesting  that  if  they  commit  actions 
morally  objectionable  "  the  less  gods  they."  The  ancient 
myths,  too,  are  very  freely  handled — Electra,  for  instance, 
being  represented  as  engaged  in  menial  tasks  and  as  the 
wife  of  a  common  yeoman.  On  the  other  hand,  Euripides' 
realism  does  not  exclude  a  romantic  and  sentimental 
treatment.  Indeed,  he  revels  in  sentiment,  and  Aristotle 
suggests  that  he  was  too  fond  of  an  enervating  pathos.1 

1  Arist.,  Poet,,  26.  \ 


'OUR  EURIPIDES,   THE  HUMAN'     249 

Realism,  one  would  be  inclined  to  say,  must  be  made  of 
sterner  stuff. 

And  now  that  we  have  in  some  measure  understood  the 
poet's  attitude,  let  us  ask,  Was  he  justified?  To  that  I 
think  our  answer  must  be  that  artistically  he  was  justified, 
for  every  artist  has  a  right  to  his  own  attitude  and  point 
of  view,  and  we  can  only  judge  or  condemn  him  if  we  find 
that  he  is  guilty  of  flagrant  inconsistency.  But  we  open 
a  larger  question  if  we  ask  whether  he  was  justified  as  a 
moralist  and  a  philosopher.  A  heavy  responsibility  rests 
on  those  who  deal  with  the  highest  subjects  of  thought  and 
attempt  to  solve  ultimate  problems  of  our  life  and  destiny. 
One  point  is  clear — that  it  is  dangerous  to  apply  a  destruc- 
tive criticism  unless  room  is  left  for  reconstruction  on  a 
higher  plane.  When  Plato  had  shown  that  current  moral 
notions  were  misleading  and  false  he  led  the  student  to 
lofty  conceptions  in  his  system  of  Ideas,  and  especially 
to  the  Idea  of  Good,  the  apex  of  his  philosophy,  equivalent 
to  God.  What  did  Euripides  do  ?  He  practically  de- 
stroyed the  whole  of  the  legendary  framework  surrounding 
and  supporting  men's  ordinary  notions  of  good  and  evil, 
and  showed  them  a  world  void  of  the  Godhead.  He 
laughed  at  the  denizens  of  Olympus  and  brought  them 
down  from  their  celestial  heights  to  the  dusty  thorough- 
fares where  men  chatter  and  bargain,  dispute,  and  quarrel 
in  everyday  life.  By  depreciating  heroic  myths  and 
heroic  characters  he  did  his  best  to  banish  a  fixed  external 
standard  of  morality  so  far  as  that  standard  existed  for 
ordinary  people.  And  so  Good  was  analysed  into  mere 
convention  and  custom,  while  Truth  was  frittered  away  into 
individual  opinion.  That  is  why  Euripides  was  held  up 
by  Aristophanes  and  others  as  a  dangerous  sophist. 

But  we  must  not  leave  matters  thus,  as  though  this 
were  all.  Euripides  deserves  better  at  our  hands  than  to 
be  called  a  sophist.  A  deeply  thoughtful  man,  he  was 
throughout  struggling  with  the  problems  of  Evil  and  the 
possibility  of  Divine  government ;  and  from  time  to  time 
gave  utterance  to  his  doubts  or  his  surmises  in  accordance 
with  his  prevalent  mood.  Like  all  of  us  in  our  own  smaller 
degree,  he  varied  in  his  opinion  as  different  facets  of  the 
great  mystery  presented  themselves  to  his  gaze.  Let  us 
not  forget  two  things  :  Euripides  was  a  realist,  but  he 
was  also  a  reformer.  In  the  Troades,  for  instance,  he 
wants  to  take  the  tinsel  off  military  glory  and  to  show 


250     OLD   SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

what  an  awful  thing  war  is.  And  if  he  is  a  sceptic,  he, 
too,  can  rise  to  some  mystical  faith  of  Pantheism.  For 
he  puts  in  the  mouth  of  Hecuba — also  in  this  play — an 
appeal  to  the  Highest  God  of  all,  the  Supreme  Intelligence, 
who  corresponds  to  what  Anaxagoras  called  Nous  and 
Plato  the  Idea  of  Good. 


SIR  HERBERT  TREE  AND  THE  ENGLISH  STAGE 

AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  AN  AMERICAN  FRIEND 

You  ask  me  to  give  you  some  idea  of  Herbert  Tree — what 
principles  he  stood  for  in  art,  what  was  his  contribution 
to  the  English  stage,  what  was  the  basis  of  his  personal 
popularity.  And  I  find  it  hard  to  give  you  satisfactory 
answers,  for  two  reasons,  one  of  which  has  to  do  with 
you  and  the  other  with  myself.  Let  me  take  the  latter 
first.  I  have  been  a  friend  of  Tree  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century — a  rather  intimate  friend  with  whom  he  would 
discuss  matters  concerning  which  he  would  remain  silent 
with  others.  He  talked  freely  with  me  because  he  thought 
(and  I  hope  he  thought  rightly)  that  I  would  understand 
him  and  sympathise  with  him.  Therefore,  now  that  he  is 
dead,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  instinctively  take  his 
part,  and  though  I  may  suggest  certain  lines  of  criticism, 
I  shall  naturally  be  inclined  to  laudation  rather  than  cen- 
sure. I  was  fond  of  Tree,  and  because  he  had  a  real  affec- 
tionateness  of  disposition — which  sometimes  he  carefully 
disguised — companionship  with  him  was  always  easy  and 
pleasant,  and  to  me  delightful. 

And  now  let  me  turn  to  your  side  of  the  question.  I  take 
it  that  judging  Tree  entirely  from  the  outside,  you  have 
sometimes  wondered  why  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  we 
thought  so  much  of  him.  You  were  aware  that  his  first 
visit  to  America  some  years  ago  was  more  or  less  of  a  failure, 
and  that  his  idiosyncrasies  struck  people  in  that  continent 
more  forcibly  than  his  positive  qualities.  On  the  occasion 
of  his  last  visit  you  were  minded  to  make  exceptions  and 
discover  differences;  you  tolerated  his  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
though  the  slow  delivery  of  his  speeches  irritated  you; 
you  admired  the  sumptuous  manner  in  which  the  play  was 
set  on  the  stage,  though  sometimes  you  thought  that  the 
frame  was  too  ornate  for  the  picture.  When  it  came  to 
Thackeray,  you  frankly  rebelled.  You  considered  his 
Colonel  Newcome  not  the  ideal  of  an  English  gentleman,  but 
the  laborious  effort  of  an  actor  to  look  like  it ;  it  seemed  to 
you  that  the  pathos  was  wrong,  the  humour  sometimes 

251 


252    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

misplaced,  the  sentimentality  too  much  in  evidence.  You 
never  saw  Tree  in  Dickens,  did  you  ?  I  ask  because  in 
David  Copperfield  Tree  gave  two  performances,  both  of 
them  admirable.  He  was  both  Dan'l  Peggotty  and  Micaw- 
ber,  and  of  the  two  I  think  the  Peggotty  was  the  better. 
He  was  also  a  very  vivid  and  picturesque  Fagin.  And  the 
moral  of  my  remark  is  that  the  pathos  of  Dickens,  the 
humour  of  Dickens,  the  sentimentality  of  Dickens  suited 
Tree's  art  better  than  the  similar  qualities  (which  exist  in 
a  very  different  form)  in  Thackeray.  If  Tree  had  been  a 
reader  of  books — he  emphatically  was  not — he  might  have 
understood  Thackeray  better.  You  cannot  get  at  the 
author  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  from  the  outside,  or  by  any  in- 
genious or  brilliant  a  priori  methods;  you  have  got  to 
live  with  him  in  prolonged  intimacy;  his  books  must  be 
at  your  bedside;  his  curious,  elusive  spirit,  half-preacher, 
half-cynic,  must  be  your  constant  companion.  With 
Dickens  it  is  different.  You  can  have  a  very  good  bowing 
acquaintance  with  Dickens  and  do  him  little  or  no  injustice. 
His  characters  have  the  melodramatic  tinge  and  strike  one 
easily  and  forcibly.  They  are  not  pure  creations  of  the 
Comic  Spirit  like  some  of  the  characters  of  Thackeray  and 
Meredith.  Farce,  sheer,  undiluted  Farce,  enters  into 
them  so  largely  that  for  stage  purposes  they  suit  admirably 
an  actor  with  a  frank  liking  for  caricature. 

And  that  reminds  me  that  you  have  not  seen — I  do  not 
think  I  am  wrong — Tree's  Falstaff  or  his  Malvolio.  You 
have  missed  a  good  deal,  though  perhaps  you  would  have 
had  the  uneasy  feeling  that  these,  too,  bordered  on  carica- 
ture. But  did  not  Shakespeare  intend  them  for  caricature  ? 
I  am  thinking  for  the  moment  of  Falstaff,  in  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,  not  of  the  hero  of  Eastcheap.  In  the 
Historical  plays  Falstaff  is  far  too  prodigious  a  creature 
to  be  included  in  any  of  our  usual  categories.  He  is  a  world 
in  himself.  He  has  an  overpowering  humour  and  a  most 
wistful  pathos.  He  is  E very-man,  enlisted  in  a  riotous 
conception  of  life  and  working  to  his  doom  with  a  blithe 
devil-may-care  recklessness.  Shakespeare  never  traced 
on  his  canvas  a  more  wonderful  being,  so  detestable  and 
so  lovable.  But  Falstaff  in  the  Merry  Wives9  is  a  carica- 
ture, and  Tree,  who  accepted  him  as  such,  gave  a  ripe, 
unctuous  performance  of  an  All-fatness,  oozing  out  drink 
and  a  maudlin  sentimentality  at  every  pore,  which  was 
quite  irresistible.  Malvolio  belongs  to  the  same  order  of 
humanity,  the  fatuous  egotist,  the  pedantic  megalomaniac. 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  253 

Tree  was  clearly  doubtful  whether  average  audiences 
would  understand  the  conception,  for  he  repeated  Malvolio 
in  the  servants  who  formed  his  retinue  and  who,  in  their 
turn,  caricatured  the  caricature.  In  the  heyday  of  Mal- 
volio's  pompous  idiocy  Tree  excelled;  when  it  came  to  the 
poor  pedant,  bullied,  imprisoned,  and  tortured,  it  was  of 
course  another  matter.  But  has  any  one  reconciled  the 
earlier  and  the  later  Malvolio  ?  Henry  Ainley,  who  did 
so  well  in  the  part  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  found  himself 
confronted  with  the  same  difficulty. 

You  will  have  gathered,  of  course,  that  versatility  was 
Tree's  chief  characteristic,  or,  as  some  might  say,  his 
besetting  sin.  Versatile  he  undoubtedly  was ;  he  tried  to 
show  his  skill  in  very  different  fields  of  dramatic  work. 
He  essayed  tragic  roles — at  one  time  he  was  very  anxious 
to  act  King  Lear,  as  a  pendant  or  culmination  to  his  Mac- 
beth, his  Othello,  his  Hamlet.  He  was  a  comedian  either 
with  or  without  a  touch  of  melodrama ;  he  made  his  name 
originally  in  farce,  as  those  know  who  saw  his  Private 
Secretary.  Versatility  is  undoubtedly  a  perilous  gift;  you 
know  how  a  so-called  versatile  man  is  supposed  to  waste 
himself  and  his  talents  in  many  channels  of  activity — and 
to  succeed  in  none.  I  have  said  a  "  so-called  versatile 
man  "  because  no  man  is  really  versatile  :  he  only  thinks 
he  is,  or  is  idly  so  reported  by  others.  There  is  always  one 
thing  he  does  which  is  better  than  others,  despite  his 
many-sidedness;  and  if  he  is  wise,  he  will  discover  what 
it  is  and  cultivate  it  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  Tree  liked 
to  be  considered  many-sided;  indeed,  he  resented  any 
suggestion  to  the  contrary,  and  for  this  reason,  I  suppose, 
wrote  two  books,  though  he  ostentatiously  declared  that 
he  was  not  a  book-reader.  His  restless  and  unbounded 
activity  was  compelled  to  show  itself  in  various  fields ;  I 
do  not  think  I  ever  came  across  any  man  who  was  more 
pertinaciously  and  assiduously  alive.  He  was  "  a  dragon 
for  work,"  as  they  say,  and  had  a  greater  range  of  vivid 
interests — literary,  political,  social,  dramatic — than  most 
of  us  can  lay  claim  to.  His  quick  alertness  of  spirit,  his 
ready  apprehension,  his  humour — which  at  times  verged 
on  the  macabre — made  him  a  most  stimulating  companion. 
He  always  saw  objects  from  the  less  obvious  standpoints 
and  delighted  in  all  that  was  unconventional  and  para- 
doxical. His  wit  was  never  mordant,  nor  was  it  always 
very  pointed.  And  his  epigrams  were  for  the  most  part 
ebullitions  of  high  spirits. 


254    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

But  if  you  ask  me  in  what  within  his  own  proper  sphere  of 
work,  the  dramatic,  Tree  was  best,  I  answer  without 
hesitation.  It  was,  as  perhaps  you  might  gather  from  what 
has  just  been  said,  in  the  representation  of  fantastic, 
eccentric,  bizarre  characters,  characters  with  a  twist  in 
them  which  made  them  peculiar  and  original.  Here  a  long 
list  of  successes  testifies  to  the  actor's  easy  mastery.  I 
take  some  names,  just  as  they  occur — Svengali  in  Trilby 
first  and  foremost,  a  fascinating  study;  the  hero  and 
villain  in  A  Mans  Shadow  ;  Izard  in  Business  is  Business  ; 
Captain  Swift;  Montjoye  in  A  Bunch  of  Violets;  the 
spectacled  Russian  detective  Demetrius  in  The  Red  Lamp  ; 
Dr.  Stockmann  in  The  Enemy  of  the  People — there  is  so  long 
a  list  that  I  should  weary  you  if  I  gave  even  a  tithe  of  them. 
But  let  me  add  at  least  the  curiously  sympathetic  imperson- 
ation of  Caliban,  a  really  remarkable  effort  of  imagination 
in  the  sphere  of  animality,  which  was  in  its  way  quite  as 
illuminating  as  Browning's  Caliban  on  Setebos.  To  see  Tree 
make  up  for  his  part  was  a  privilege  I  often  enjoyed.  There 
in  his  dressing-room  you  saw  the  artist  at  work,  the  creative 
artist  who  adds  touch  after  touch  to  complete  the  picture, 
until  suddenly  the  whole  conception  bursts  into  significant 
life.  When  Tree  had  thoroughly  got  inside  the  skin  of  a 
character — which  often  took  some  time — he  seemed  to 
partake  of  a  new  and  alien  life.  A  singular  illustration 
was  Zakkuri  in  the  Darling  of  the  Gods,  in  which  by  degrees 
Tree  gave  us,  I  do  not  say  a  true,  but  an  extraordinarily 
vivid  and  convincing,  portrait  of  a  Japanese  statesman  in 
all  his  horrible  subtlety  and  coarseness.  Another  example 
was  Izard  in  Business  is  Business.  Tree  was  never  a  smoker 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  he  only  smoked  for  the  sake 
of  companionship,  taking  a  modest  fourpenny  cigar, 
while  he  gave  his  guest  Coronas.  But  in  Izard  he  was 
perpetually  smoking  big  and  black-looking  cigars.  I 
asked  him  how  he  managed  to  stand  it ;  he  answered  that, 
as  it  seemed  natural  to  the  character,  he  found  it  easy  for 
himself.  Off  the  stage  he  could  not  have  done  it;  on  the 
stage  it  was  appropriate  and  therefore  a  piece  of  unconscious 
mimicry.  Svengali  smoked,  I  think,  cigarettes  or  long 
Vevey  fins.  The  Duke  of  Guisebery  smoked,  quite  as  to 
the  manner  born,  a  pipe — a  luxury  in  which  Tree,  the  indi- 
vidual, not  the  actor,  never  indulged. 

You  must  forgive  me  for  rambling  on  in  this  desultory 
fashion  ;  I  want  you  to  understand  how,  for  those  who  knew 
him  and  liked  him,  Tree  the  man,  over  and  above  all  the 


THE  ENGLISH  STAGE  255 

parts  he  assumed,  gained  his  great  personal  ascendancy. 
It  is  Tree  the  man  I  remember  now,  and,  doubtless,  my 
appreciation  of  his  personality  colours  all  my  judgment 
of  his  acting.  It  is  Tree  the  man  who  figures  in  my  memory 
and  perhaps  his  shade — if  such  things  can  vex  those  who 
have  passed  into  the  land  of  shadows — is  inclined  to  rebuke 
me  for  writing  about  him.  For  I  recall  an  incident  bearing 
on  the  point.  He  asked  me  one  night  at  supper  at  the 
Garrick  what  I  had  been  writing.  I  answered  that  I  had 
been  trying  to  write  an  obituary  of  my  friend,  H.  D.  Traill. 
"  That  must  be  an  odious  task,"  he  said;  "  the  more  you 
like  a  man  the  less  ought  you  to  write  about  him."  I 
agreed,  but  remarked  that  journalism  required  such  heavy 
sacrifices  of  feeling  and  affection;  and  that,  anyway,  it 
was  better  that  an  obituary  notice  should  be  written  by  a 
friend  than  by  a  merely  critical  observer.  This  is  my  only 
defence  now  in  taking  up  my  pen.  In  many  ways  I  should 
have  preferred  to  be  silent.  To  say  nothing  is  the  only 
becoming  attitude  for  friendship.  But  however  more 
congenial  it  may  be  to  be  silent  and  to  remember,  there  are 
other  considerations  which  are  bound  to  be  operative. 
"  You  are  always  a  little  cold  when  you  write  about  me," 
Tree  said  to  me  once.  "  Is  not  that  natural  ?  "  I  replied. 
"  You  know  the  old  adage  about  a  cold  hand  and  a  warm 
heart."  "  It  is  all  very  well  to  dissemble  your  love.  But 
why  did  you  kick  me  downstairs  ? "  Tree  quoted  gaily. 
"  But  of  course  I  understand,"  he  added  with  his  genial 
smile.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  never  had  even  the  slightest 
difference  in  all  the  twenty -seven  years  of  companionship. 
With  most  men  he  had  an  open,  genial  manner  which  they 
found  very  attractive.  Even  his  occasional  affectations 
—which  no  one  laughed  at  more  heartily  than  Tree  himself, 
but  which  obviously  he  could  not  help — did  not  annoy 
them,  because  they  foundthe  amusing.  I  am  not  sure 
however,  whether  women  understood  him  as  well  as  men 
— any  more  than  the  average  woman  can  understand  why 
to  some  of  us  Falstaff  is  as  great  a  creation  as  Hamlet. 

Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  at  this  moment. 
You  imagine  that  I  shrink  from  the  main  issue  and  that  I 
am  toying  with  purely  subsidiary  points  just  because  I  find 
it  difficult  to  solve  your  main  problem.  I  answer,  however, 
that  some  things,  perhaps  subsidiary  and  unessential  as 
you  feel,  must  be  understood  first  before  we  are  in  any 
position  to  arrive  at  a  positive  conclusion.  Let  us  admit 
without  reserve  that  Tree  as  a  personality  was  greater  than 


256    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

anything  he  accomplished;  but  you  must  allow  me  to 
observe  that  that  in  itself  is  a  compliment,  and  in  the  case 
of  many  artists  a  very  great  one.  Moreover,  it  makes  no 
little  difference  in  the  result  how  and  in  what  spirit  you 
approach  the  consideration  of  a  character.  To  me  the 
important  point  is  to  ask  what  a  man  can  do,  not  to  worry 
yourself  about  what  he  cannot  do.  The  latter  attitude 
leads  to  purely  barren  criticism  and  an  enumeration  of 
unilluminating  negatives.  The  former  gives  one  interesting 
glimpses  of  psychology.  It  is  the  same  with  other  things 
besides  men.  It  is  true  of  a  piece  of  mechanism  like  a 
bicycle  or  a  motor-car ;  it  is  true  also  of  a  dog  or  a  semi- 
personal  being,  like  a  ship.  You  will  never  get  the  best 
out  of  such  objects,  you  will  never  get  the  best  out  of  ordin- 
ary human  relations,  unless  the  positive  occupies  you  more 
than  the  negative,  what  can  be  done  rather  than  what 
cannot.  Do  not  smile  at  such  truisms.  So  far  as  I  can  judge, 
they  are  often  quite  curiously  and  wantonly  disregarded  by 
many  men,  most  women,  and  a  large  proportion  of  critics. 
Somewhere— I  think  in  "  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea  "—Mr. 
Joseph  Conrad  remarks  that  certain  ship-masters  are  like 
Royal  Academicians.  They  are  eminently  safe,  but  they 
never  startle  you  by  a  fresh  audacity  of  inspiration  or  a 
touch  of  originality.  There  are  actors  of  a  similar  kind. 
They  are  quite  sure  of  themselves,  they  can  be  trusted  to 
do  the  right  thing  at  the  proper  moment,  they  are  recognised 
leaders  of  the  profession  who  will  always  give  you  the  same 
sort  of  acting,  quite  good,  quite  reputable,  quite  adequate 
(hateful  word  !),  but  devoid  of  any  disturbing  brightness  of 
emotion  or  fancy.  No  one  could  charge  Tree  with  belong- 
ing to  this  solemn  order  of  artist.  He  was  always  unex- 
pected, daring,  original.  He  often  gave  one  a  shock  of 
surprise,  welcome  or  unwelcome.  He  was  good  when  you 
anticipated  a  relative  failure;  poor,  when  you  could  have 
wagered  on  his  success.  His  acting  was  never  monotonous, 
rarely  the  same  from  night  to  night.  Like  his  conversation, 
it  was  full  of  quick  turns  and  unlooked-for  spurts  of  wit. 
For  the  same  reason,  his  figure  as  he  moved  on  the  stage 
was  vivid,  graphic,  picturesque,  satisfying  the  eye,  even 
when  occasionally  he  failed  to  satisfy  the  mind.  When 
he  was  acting  Mark  Antony  in  the  Forum  scene  he  broke  off 
the  famous  speech  in  the  middle,  came  down  from  the 
rostrum  and  finished  his  speech,  standing  on  a  broken 
pillar.  I  argued  with  him  about  this,  suggesting  that  if 
Mark  Antony  was  really  holding  his  audience  he  would  never 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  257 

have  altered  his  position.  Tree  answered  :  "  You  forget 
the  soon-wearied  eye  of  the  spectator  :  he  becomes  tired  of 
one  situation  and  demands  another.  Besides,"  he  added 
with  a  whimsical  smile,  "  change  is  a  necessity  for  my 
nature."  It  was  indeed.  And  owing  to  this  he  became 
tired  and  bored  with  his  part,  and  sometimes  broke  off  the 
run  of  a  piece  in  the  midst  of  a  brilliant  success.  I  antici- 
pate what  you  will  say,  my  critical  friend  !  You  will 
remind  me  that  I  am  describing  the  qualities  of  an  amateur, 
not  of  a  professional.  I  do  not  shrink  from  the  conclusion. 
Tree  had  all  the  best  points  of  an  amateur,  and  some  of 
his  triumphs  were  gained  just  for  that  reason.  He  was  a 
glorified  amateur  who  dared  things  which  a  professional 
never  would  have  dared,  and  won  a  shining  victory.  He 
mistrusted  all  talk  about  technique.  "  I  have  not  got 
technique,"  he  once  said;  "  it  is  a  dull  thing.  It  enslaves 
the  imagination."  And  when  he  established  his  school 
in  Gower  Street,  in  which  I  was  able  to  render  some  small 
help,  he  retained  some  doubts,  which  were  afterwards 
dispelled.  "  You  cannot  teach  acting,"  he  said.  No,  but 
you  can  prepare  the  groundwork  by  means  of  which  the 
natural  aptitude  gets  its  chance.  And  this  he  subsequently 
recognised  to  be  the  case. 

What  were  the  positive  contributions  of  Herbert  Tree 
to  the  English  stage  ?  Here  there  is  some  room  for  dissent 
and  disagreement :  I  will  only  put  down  certain  facts  in 
the  form  in  which  they  appear  to  me.  Remember,  in  the 
first  place,  that  he  inherited  a  great  tradition  from  Henry 
Irving  who  had  set  a  magnificent  example  of  stage-produc- 
tion at  the  Lyceum.  Tree  was  at  first  content  to  carry  on 
the  tradition  on  similar  lines.  He  produced  plays  with 
extreme  care  for  detail  and  many  appeals  to  the  eye. 
There  was  never  anything  slipshod  either  in  the  method  of 
stage  representation  or  in  the  attention  paid  to  what 
the  diplomats  call  "  imponderabilia."  Indeed,  it  was  the 
care  taken  over  the  minutiae  which  guaranteed  the  effective- 
ness of  the  whole.  Thanks  in  especial  to  Irving  and  Tree, 
London  stage-production  reached  a  higher  level  of  complete- 
ness and  finish  than  was  to  be  seen  in  foreign  capitals. 
Sarah  Bernhardt  and  other  foreign  visitors  acknowledged 
that  in  this  respect  they  did  not  do  things  better  in  France. 
Gradually  Tree  bettered  the  examples  of  his  predecessors. 
His  critics  said  he  over-elaborated  his  effects;  his  friends 
were  never  tired  of  welcoming  new  grades  of  beauty.  I 
take  only  two  instances  out  of  many  which  offer  themselves 


258    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

in  recollection.  Probably  there  never  was  a  more  beautiful 
stage  picture  than  Olivia's  pleasaunce  in  Twelfth  Night. 
We  talk  of  the  hanging  gardens  of  Babylon  as  of  something 
legendary  and  rare.  Here  before  our  eyes  were  to  be  seen 
Olivia's  hanging  gardens,  a  dream  of  exquisite  and  ap- 
pealing beauty  which  seemed  to  bring  out  the  more  clearly 
by  contrast  the  vulgarity  and  coarseness  of  Sir  Toby 
Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheel^,  while  it  enhanced  the 
delicacy  of  Viola  and  Olivia  herself.  The  other  example 
I  will  take  is  from  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  You 
will  recall  that  though  the  scene  is  supposed  to  be  laid  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Athens,  the  feeling,  the  atmosphere 
of  the  play  belong  essentially  to  Stratford  and  England. 
Accordingly,  Tree  gave  us,  alternately  with  some  marble 
seats  and  olive  trees,  splendid  glimpses  of  British  forests 
in  which  the  fairies  ran  wild  and  Bottom  and  his  companions 
rehearsed  their  uncouth  theatricals.  Anything  more  restful 
to  the  eye  than  these  glades  of  sylvan  beauty  I  have  never 
seen  on  any  stage.  I  used  to  drop  into  the  theatre  while 
the  play  was  going  on  just  to  realise  once  more  the  solemn 
delightful  effect  of  the  old  beeches  sheltering  the  wayward 
fancies  of  Oberon,  Titania,  and  Puck,  and  providing  a 
rehearsal  ground  for  Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  I  must  also 
add  something  about  the  elaborate  scene  at  the  end  of  the 
play  when  the  pillars  of  the  Duke' s  palace  glow  with  internal 
light  to  enable  the  fairies  to  carry  on  their  domestic  tasks 
of  making  everything  clean  and  sweet  for  the  mortals.  It 
was  beautiful,  but  perhaps  too  elaborate.  One  missed  in 
this  case  the  note  of  simplicity,  the  wise  sobriety  of  an 
accomplished  artist  who  would  not  strive  "to  do  better 
than  well "  lest  he  should  "  confound  his  skill  in  covetous- 
ness."  There  were  charming  pictures,  too,  in  the  Tempest, 
little  sea-fairies  peeping  round  the  edges  of  the  rocks,  while 
Ariel  sported  in  the  pools,  which  one  remembers  with 
gratitude.  But,  indeed,  the  time  would  fail  me  if  I  were 
to  recount  half  the  wonders  which  the  magician  Tree  dis- 
played before  our  eyes  in  play  after  play.  You  may  call 
him  a  consummate  decorator,  if  you  like,  le  Tapissier  du 
noire  Theatre,  as  Luxemburg — was  it  not  ? — was  called  by 
reason  of  his  conquest  of  flags  and  other  costly  stuff, 
le  Tapissier  de  Notre-Dame.  But  I  maintain  that  he  had 
the  eye,  the  feeling,  the  touch  of  an  artist. 

It  would  be  a  small  matter  to  decorate  the  outside  of 
the  vase  if  it  did  not  contain  within  itself  rare  and  exquisite 
essences.  Tree  soon  realised  that  decoration  in  itself  could 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  259 

only  please  the  groundlings  or  the  dilettantes,  and  that 
the  main  matter  of  consequence  was  the  spirit  in  which 
the  whole  adventure  was  attempted.  What  was  the 
character  of  the  adventure  ?  It  was  to  give  the  British 
stage  dignity  as  well  as  charm,  high  seriousness  as  well  as 
aesthetic  adornment.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  from  time 
to  time  he  put  before  his  public — a  clientele,  by  the  way, 
which  was  always  steadily  growing — stately  performances 
of  Shakespearean  plays,  incidentally  proving  that  our 
great  English  dramatist  did  not  necessarily  spell  bank- 
ruptcy, but,  judiciously  treated,  might  be  made  to  yield  a 
fair  percentage  of  profit.  He  varied  his  programme 
with  lighter  fare,  as  a  matter  of  course  :  a  man  who  had 
undertaken  the  responsibility  of  so  large  a  theatre  as  His 
Majesty's  was  bound  to  keep  a  steady  eye  on  the  booking- 
office  and  replenish  his  coffers  now  and  again  by  popular 
appeals.  Unfortunately,  our  public  is  not  always  spurred 
and  exalted  to  finer  issues ;  and  though  Shakespeare  under 
special  conditions  can  become  almost  popular,  a  certain 
melodramatic  blatancy — or  at  least  insistence — has  a  more 
distinct  pecuniary  appeal.  Where  theatres  are  not 
supported  by  municipalities  or  the  State,  the  lessee  and 
manager  is  forced  to  "  go  here  and  there  and  make  himself 
a  motley  to  the  view  "  for  base  considerations  of  solvency. 
But  Tree  did  not  forget  the  higher  obligations  of  the  position 
he  had  attained.  As  head  of  the  profession  he  realised  his 
responsibilities.  He  was  full  of  the  idea  of  the  importance 
of  the  theatrical  art,  as  a  main  instrument  of  culture  and 
as  a  most  necessary  element  in  civic  and  social  life.  He  did 
not  work  merely  for  his  own  hand,  but  upheld  the  claims 
of  his  calling.  He  instituted  a  Shakespearean  week — a 
most  costly  undertaking — in  order  to  keep  alive  our 
indebtedness  to  the  Elizabethan  stage.  He  presided  at 
meetings,  made  speeches,  inaugurated  movements,  pushed 
and  encouraged  various  policies,  in  order  to  prove  that 
actors  were  important  elements  in  the  community  who  had 
their  proper  functions  in  the  body  politic.  You  know 
how  many  speeches  Tree  made  in  the  United  States,  not 
because  speaking  was  easy  to  him — it  never  was — but 
because  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  represent  British  interests 
and  ideals  in  this  appalling  universal  war.  Only  a  week  or 
two  before  his  death  he  told  me  that  he  often  composed  the 
speech  he  was  presently  going  to  deliver  while  he  was 
declaiming  Wolsey's  long  "  farewell  to  all  his  greatness  " 
before  his  audience  in  Henry  VIII. 


260    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  career  of  this  well-equipped 
actor  and  most  competent  manager  and  lessee  had  a  bene- 
ficial effect  on  the  English  stage;  for  Tree  had  a  great 
organising  ability  and  admirably  quick  and  valuable 
intuitions.  But  you  will  naturally  ask  me  a  question 
which  has  long  been  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue — I  am  writing 
to  you  as  though  I  actually  saw  and  witnessed  your  im- 
patience— the  question  as  to  Tree's  attitude  towards  the 
future  of  the  dramatic  art.  Granted  that  his  influence 
on  his  contemporary  public  was  all  to  the  good,  what  about 
his  relation  to  novel  movements  and  to  those  efforts  which 
zealous  innovators  have  made  to  "reform"  the  drama? 
The  future  of  the  English  stage  !  Ah,  but  will  you  tell 
me  what  is  the  future  ?  There  was  a  movement  some  few 
years  back,  to  which  I  will  return  presently.  But  what  is 
the  prospect  now  ?  Looking  superficially  at  existing  facts, 
one  might  give  several  replies.  Apparently  the  tendency 
at  the  present  moment  is  in  the  direction  of  light,  frivolous 
entertainments,  only  intended  to  amuse  and  distract  men's 
minds  from  the  horrible  preoccupation  with  the  war. 
American  comedies  have  had  their  chance,  and  succeeded 
in  proportion  to  the  farcical  elements  they  have  contained. 
Revues  flourish  as  much  as  ever — perhaps  rather  more 
than  they  used  to.  Composite  entertainments,  musical, 
droll,  heterogeneous,  are  in  vogue,  especially  if  they  have 
enlisted  in  their  company  at  least  one  clever  woman  and 
one  reputedly  clever  man.  Mr.  H.  B.  Irving  with  admirable 
boldness  tried  Hamlet,  but  it  had  to  be  withdrawn  for  want 
of  support.  Serious  plays  seem  to  be  at  a  discount,  unless, 
like  M.  Brieux's  plays,  Les  Avaries,  and  Les  trois  filles  de 
M.  Dupont,  and  Ibsen's  Ghosts,  they  make  an  appeal 
which  is  not  mainly  histrionic.  Doubtless  some  of  these 
phenomena  are  due  to  the  unreal  conditions  of  the  time; 
they  are  symptomatic  not  of  currents  of  artistic  or  inartistic 
fashion  running  below  the  surface,  but  of  our  unrest,  our 
weariness,  our  irrepressible  feeling  that,  set  against  the 
lurid  background  of  ceaseless  warfare,  no  artistic  effort 
matters  very  much.  Meanwhile  our  theatres  are  full — 
when  they  are  full — of  officers  and  soldiers  on  leave  accom- 
panied by  their  sisters  or  cousins  or  lovers  who  only  want 
their  military  friends  to  be  happy — and  this  is  not  the  kind 
of  theatrical  audience  which  cares  for  dramatic  art  or  even 
desires  to  think  at  all.  Tree  brought  back  from  America 
a  piece  in  which  he  strongly  believed.  The  Great  Lover,  I 
think,  was  its  name.  He  had  every  intention  of  producing 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  261 

it  forthwith ;  but  what  success  it  might  have  secured  under 
present  conditions  is  an  unsolved  problem.  The  great 
success  in  London  is,  of  course,  Chu  Chin  Chow,  a  piece 
beautifully  presented  and  full  of  elaborate  and  admirable 
pictures.  But  it  is  hardly  a  play  in  the  sense  in  which  you 
and  I  understand  the  term. 

Still,  you  remember  that  there  was  a  movement  going  on 
a  few  years  back,  which  we  associate  with  Granville  Barker 
and  with  a  competent  body  of  actors — Ainley,  Nicholson, 
Leon  Quartermaine,  Lillah  McCarthy,  and  others.1  It 
was  an  effort  in  the  direction  of  greater  simplicity  of  stage 
presentation  and  the  abolition  of  long  waits  between  scenes 
and  acts.  It  revealed  to  us,  for  instance,  that  some  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  could  be  given  in  three  hours  without 
any  cuts  and  omissions — so  that  we  might  be  seeing  the 
plays  more  or  less  as  the  author  intended  that  we  should. 
Time  was  gained  by  making  the  actors  speak  faster,  without 
wearisome  pauses  and  unimpressive  silences.  I  don't 
think  I  have  ever  heard  an  actor  speak  with  such  rapidity 
as  Ainley  achieved  as  Laertes  in  A  Winter's  Tale.  The 
movement  included  some  elements  of  mere  freakishness, 
as  when  Barker  gave  the  fairies  in  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  gilded  faces.  But  the  scenery,  though  elementary, 
was  to  a  sufficient  degree  picturesque,  and  the  acting  was 
persuasively  good.  A  similar  method  applied  to  Macbeth 
or  Othello  would  have  been  very  instructive.  Meanwhile 
Twelfth  Night,  so  treated,  had  a  real  effectiveness  of  its 
own.  And  the  daring  experiment  of  putting  Mr.  Hardy's 
The  Dynasts  on  the  boards  was,  within  the  limits  prescribed, 
a  triumph. 

I  do  not  think  that  Tree  had  much  sympathy  with  this 
movement.  He  took  a  great  interest  in  it,  of  course,  just 
as  he  did  in  the  Russian  Ballet,  which  he  visited  as  often  as 
he  could.  But  so  far  as  I  could  make  out  he  preferred  older 
methods.  With  regard  to  the  Russian  Ballet,  he  once 
remarked  with  no  little  acuteness  that  it  struck  him  as 
"  the  gilded  plaything  of  an  effete  autocracy  "  ;  and  with 
regard  to  Granville  Barker's  productions  he  seemed  to  feel 
— though  I  do  not  remember  a  definite  statement — that 
they  were  bizarre,  freakish  experiments  which  could  only 
appeal  to  a  section  of  the  public  and  not  to  the  great  mass  of 
theatre-goers.  For  himself,  remember  that  he  had  the 
vast  auditorium  of  His  Majesty's  resting  on  his  shoulders, 

1  Mr.  Martin  Harvey  tried  similar  experiments  in  Taming  of  the  Shrew 
and  Hamlet. 


262    OLD  SAWS  AND  MODERN  INSTANCES 

and  that  he  was  bound  to  consider  the  tastes  not  of  sections, 
but  of  the  public  at  large.  He  always  insisted  on  this 
fact.  "  I  have  to  find  something  which  will  be  agreeable 
to  stalls,  upper  circle,  pit,  gallery — all  at  once."  And 
directly  we  think  of  the  many-headed  public  who  keep 
theatres  going,  and  the  difficulty  there  is  in  finding  a 
common  focus  for  their  ardent,  unsophisticated  enthusiasm 
and  their  uncritical  approval,  we  shall  begin  to  recognise 
the  burden  laid  on  theatrical  entrepreneurs  and  the  neces- 
sary contrast  between  their  point  of  view  and  that  of 
irresponsible  dramatic  critics. 

I  do  not  know  if  I  have  satisfied  your  curiosity  in  these 
few  remarks  of  mine.  I  recognise  that  yours  is  a  legitimate 
curiosity  from  the  standpoint  of  a  man  like  yourself  who 
stands  outside  our  more  intimate  interests  and  desires  to 
view  a  situation  in  its  broad  and  general  features.  To  you 
Herbert  Tree  is  an  actor  and  a  manager  who  has  done  certain 
large  things  in  a  large  way,  and  has  either  succeeded  or 
failed.  To  us  he  is  a  many-sided  personality,  in  whose 
case  mere  histrionic  success  is  only  one  element  in  a  complex 
and  varied  whole.  On  one  point  I  think  you  may  feel 
confidence.  If  you  admit  that  Tree  fills  a  conspicuous 
space  in  our  admiration  and  regard,  you  will  also  have  to 
accept  this  as  a  solid  fact — even  though  it  may  surprise 
you — with  which  you  have  to  reckon.  He  has  had  many 
admirers  and  no  few  devoted  friends.  He  was  believed  in 
as  a  force  in  our  dramatic  world,  as  a  man  who  consistently 
held  a  high  ideal  for  our  stage,  and  employed  his  sympathy, 
his  energy,  and  his  own  remarkable  powers  in  a  valiant 
attempt  at  its  realisation.  That  is  a  simple  fact  which 
cannot  be  gainsaid;  and  it  must  enter  into  your  general 
estimate  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  as  it  has  already 
done  and  will  increasingly  do  into  ours  on  this  side. 

A  high  ideal  for  the  stage  ?  Perhaps  you  stop  over  this 
phrase  and  feel  some  hesitation  in  adopting  it.  But  if  you 
do,  you  are  up  against  one  of  those  baffling  points  in 
psychology,  which  affect  many  other  men  besides  Tree. 
How  much  of  the  ideal  must  be  sacrified  in  daily  practice 
if  anything  whatever  is  to  be  achieved  ?  Does  the  ideal 
cease  to  be  an  ideal  if  it  ever  be  forgotten  ?  Can  one  wor- 
ship the  ideal  in  secret  and  deny  it  in  the  open  light  of  day  ? 
Is  compromise  a  reputable,  even  if  necessary,  policy  ? 
Ah,  who  shall  scrutinise  his  conscience  without  many  pangs 
of  self-reproach  in  questions  like  these  !  That  Tree  pro- 
duced some  unworthy  pieces  it  would  be  absurd  to  deny. 


THE   ENGLISH   STAGE  263 

He  did,  and  he  knew  he  did — just  as  he  knew  also  that  he 
must  keep  up  a  great  theatrical  establishment  and  transact 
a  vast  business,  for  which  the  possession  of  funds  was  obliga- 
tory. I  remember  one  occasion  at  a  club  after  the  produc- 
tion of  a  gaudy  melodrama — I  will  not  mention  its  name  for 
fear  of  getting  into  trouble  with  the  author — when  some  of 
us  were  chaffing — I  think  you  call  it  "  chipping  "  —Tree 
concerning  some  of  its  banal  effects  and  its  "  popular " 
character.  He  loved  being  chaffed,  or,  at  all  events,  he 
bore  it  with  unflinching  good  humour,  and  riposted  gaily 
on  his  critics.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  piece  was  a  pecuni- 
ary success.  But  Tree  by  himself  was  in  a  different  mood. 
He  knew  what  he  was  doing,  and  was  not  proud  of  it. 
"  Compromise,  the  god  of  the  shiftless,"  he  used  to  say. 

You  remember  Henry  James's  ironical  little  story,  "  The 
Lesson  of  the  Master  "  ?  In  that  you  will  find  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  matter.  An  older  novelist  preaching  to  a 
younger  novelist,  warns  him  against  being  seduced  from 
his  high  ideals  by  such  encumbrances  as  a  wife  and  children 
and  the  obligation  of  keeping  up  a  costly  and  hospitable 
house.  The  young  writer  is  duly  impressed  until  he  dis- 
covers that  his  mentor — even  after  his  melancholy  experi- 
ence of  what  marriage  can  do  to  deaden  aspiration — 
deliberately  marries  again,  and  marries  the  very  girl  with 
whom  the  young  disciple  of  the  master  was  in  love  !  How 
shockingly  cynical,  one  says,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
deliberation,  how  abominably  true  !  It  is  true,  my  friend, 
and  true  of  all  of  us.  A  little  clearer  vision  and  then  the 
clouds  come  down  again.  A  glimpse  of  the  pure  high 
aether  of  heaven  and  then  the  rain-splashed  earth.  We  do 
what  we  must  and  not  always  what  we  can.  Let  him  that 
is  without  sin  cast  the  first  stone.  I,  at  all  events,  have  no 
wish  either  to  bombard  you  with  truisms  or  to  cast  stones 
at  Tree.  His  was  a  fine,  courageous,  indomitable  character ; 
and  over  and  over  again,  for  his  delight  and  ours,  he  drew 
from  his  intellectual  instrument  the  finest  music  that 
nature  had  hidden  in  it,  and  played  it  as  it  should  be  played. 
Peace  be  to  his  ashes — he  will  be  much  and  widely  missed. 
Multis  Hie  bonis  flebilis  occidit. 


INDEX 


Acharnians,  The  (Aristophanes),  32, 
44,  105 

Adonis,  94,  98 

Adored  Qye,  The  (Barrie),  139 

JSgisthus,  13 

jEneid,  The  (Virgil),  92 

^Eschines,  62,  63,  84 

^schylus,  1-16,  58,  92,  124,  162,  241, 
242 

Agamemnon  (^Eschylus),  4,  7,  12-16, 
163,  238,  242 

Ainley,  Henry,  2,  253,  261 

Alcaeus,  94,  96 

Alcestis  (Euripides),  239 

Alcibiades,  46-52,  73 

Alexander  the  Great,  61 

Alexander,  Sir  George,  179 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  (Shake- 
speare), 138 

Ameipsias,  45 

Amphipolis,  43,  64,  66 

Anacreon,  91,  94 

Anactoria,  90,  96 

Anaxagoras,  43,  100,  103-4,  236,  241, 
250 

Androcles  and  the  Lion  (Shaw),  138 

Andromache,  89,  106,  247 

Antoninus  Pius,  109 

Aphrodite,  4,  94,  97 

Apollo,  4,  98,  103,  242 

Archilochus,  94 

Ares,  4,  103 

Argaeus,  64 

Aristophanes,  7,  31-59,  92,  100,  124, 
127-8,  237,  241,  244,  249 

Aristotle,  61,  151,  185,  236,  243 

Arnold,  Matthew,  116-18,  172,  202 

Arrah-na-pogue  (Boucicault),  172 

Artemis,  4 

Artemisia,  98 

Artzybascheff,  198 

Aspasia,  89-108 

Assommoir,  L'  (Zola)  :  see  Drink 

Astyanax,  247 

As  You  Like  It  (Shakespeare),  131 


Athene,  4,  13,  102,  242 

Athenian  Empire,  31-59,  61,  65,  67, 

100-2 

Atreus,  house  of,  13-15,  238 
Atthis,  90,  96 

Augier,  Emile,  155,  176,  237 
Avaries,   Les   (Brieux),   3,    164,   218, 

222-32,  260 

Babylonians,  The  (Aristophanes),  33-4 

Bacchce  (Euripides),  221 

Balfour,  A.  J.,  213 

Bancroft,  Sir  Squire  and  Lady,  173-5 

Banqueters,  The  (Aristophanes),  32-4, 

42 
Barker,  GranviUe,  2,  150,  197,  206-9, 

261 

Barrie,  Sir  J.  M.,  139 
Bejart,  Armande,  149,  158 
Benefit  of  the  Doubt,  The  (Pinero),  180, 

195 

Bennett,  Arnold,  197,  217 
Berceau,  Le  (Brieux),  221-2 
Bergson,  Henri,  144,  167 
Bienfaiteurs,  Les  (Brieux),  221-3 
Birds,  The  (Aristophanes),  45,  50-2 
Black- Eyed  Susan  (Jerrold),  170,  172 
Blanchette  (Brieux),  222-3 
Boucicault,  Dion,  172 
Bourgeois  aux  Champs,  Le  (Brieux), 


Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  Le  (Moliere), 

151 

Brasidas,  43,  47,  48 
Brieux,  Eugene,  3,  163,  218-35,  237, 

244,  260 

Browning,  Robert,  170,  213 
Bulwer  Lytton  :  see  Lytton 
Business  is  Business  (Mirbeau),  254 
Byron,  Henry  J.,  172 
Byron,  Lord,  96,  170 

Caesar  and  Cleopatra  (Shaw),  138 
Captain      Brassbound's      Conversion 
(Shaw),  139,  164,  194 


265 


266 


INDEX 


Cassilis  Engagement,   The  (Hankin), 

216 

Caste  (Robertson),  175 
Catullus,  96 
Chapman,  George,  138 
Charaxus,  93 
Charity  that  Begins  at  Home  (Hankin), 

216 

Charles  I.  (Wills),  214 
Chu  Chin  Chow,  261 
Cimon,  37,  100-1 
Cleanthes,  112 
Cleon,  31-46,  58,  104 
Clouds,  The  (Aristophanes),  32,  42 
Clough,  Arthur,  202 
Clytemnestra,  13,  238-9,  242 
Colleen  Bawn,  The  (Boucicault),  172 
Collier,  Jeremy,  141-8 
Comedy,  ancient,  127 

• ,  French,  148-60 

,  idea  of,  122-60 

,  Italian,  129 

of  Manners,  140-8 

of  Masks,  129 

,  Restoration,  140-8 

,  Shakespearean,  130-9 

Comedy  of  Errors,  The  (Shakespeare), 

130-1,  138 

Congreve,  William,  122,  140-7,  152 
Corneille,  Pierre,  125,  244 
Cotin,  Abbe,  159 
Cotys  (King  of  Thrace),  64 
Country  Wife,  The  (Wycherley),  141, 

143,  145 

Couvee,  La  (Brieux),  222 
Cratinus,  99,  104 
Cromwell  (Victor  Hugo),  166 
Ctesiphon,  79,  80 

Damaged  Goods  (Brieux) :  see  Avaries, 

Les 

Damophila,  90 
Darling  of  the  Gods,  254 
David  Copperfield,  252 
Dedale,  Le  (Hervieu),  221 
Demosthenes,  38-46,  52-3,  60-88 
Deserteuse,  La  (Brieux),  222 
Dickens,  Charles,  252 
Dionysia,  34-8,  43 
Dionysus,  4,  34,  58,  237 
Diplomacy  (Sardou),  176 
Doctor's  Dilemma,  The  (Shaw),  164 
DolVs  House,  A  (Ibsen),  186-95 
Don  Garde  (Moliere),  153 
Dora  (Sardou)  :  see  Diplomacy 
Drink  (Zola),  215 
Dumas,  Alexandre  (fils),  155, 171,  181, 

237 
Dynasts,  The  (Hardy),  1-29,  261 


Eadie,  Denis,  215 

Ecole  des  Femmes  (Moliere),  150,  156 

Eldest  Son,   The   (Galsworthy),    168, 

203,  209 

Electro  (Euripides),  238 
Elia  :  see  Lamb,  Charles 
Elizabethan  Theatre,  130,  164,  214 
Enemy  of  the  People  (Ibsen),  157,  189, 

254 

Engrenage,  U  (Brieux),  222 
Ephialtes,  37,  100 
Epictetus,  100 
Epicurus,  29 
Erinna  of  Telos,  90 
Etherege,  Sir  George,  140,  143 
Etourdi,  U  (Moliere),  150 
Eucken,  R.  C.  van,  167 
Eupolis,  32,  89,  99,  100 
Euripides,  4,  58,  92,  163,  223,  236-50 
Evasion,  U  (Brieux),  222-6 
Evil,  problem  of,  12 

False  Gods  (Brieux) :  see  Foi,  La 
Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  (Hardy), 

17,  18 

Fate,  Hardy's  doctrine  of,  29 
Faustina,  109 

Feminism,  106,  191,  203-5,  244 
Femmes  Savantes,  Les  (Moliere),  123, 

151-60 

Femme  Seule,  La  (Brieux),  164,  222 
Filon,  Augustin,  171,  191 
Foi,  La  (Brieux),  219-23 
Fourberies  de  Scapin,  Les  (Moliere), 

153 

Friend,  Sir  John,  146 
Frogs,  The  (Aristophanes),  58 

Galsworthy,  John,  168, 197,  203,  209- 

13,  215-17 

George  Dandin  (Moliere),  152 
Ghosts  (Ibsen),    185-6,    190,    230-2, 

260 

Gigantomachia  (Greek  comedy),  128 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  213 
Glycera,  124 
Goethe,  J.  W.  von,  3 
Goldoni,  Carlo,  129 
Goodall,  Edyth,  211 
Gorgias  (orator),  33 
Great  Adventure,  The  (Bennett),  217 
Greek  history,  ancient,  45-85,  99-108, 

236-50 

,  modern,  75 

Grundy,  Sydney,  176 
Gylippus,  50,  52 

Hadrian,  267 
Hagnon,  55 


INDEX 


267 


Hamlet  (Shakespeare),  130,  138,  149, 

156,  158,  260 
Hankin,  St.  John,   197,  202-3,  205, 

211,  215-16 

Hannetons,  Les  (Brieux),  221-3 
Hardy,  Thomas,  1-6,  15,  17-30,  202, 

261 

Hare,  Sir  John,  179,  185 
Harlequin,  129 
Hecuba,  89,  247 
Hedda  Gabler  (Ibsen),  191-2 
Heimat  (Sudermann),  204 
Helen  of  Troy,  14,  89,  247-8 
Hdiades  (^schylus),  25 
Hellenism  :  see  Pan-hellenism 
Hephaestus,  4,  9,  10 
Heracles,  10,  26,  240 
Hermse,  mutilation  of,  49 
HindU  Wakes  (Houghton),  168,  188, 

203,  210-11 

His  Majesty's  Theatre,  220,  261 
Homer,  33,  94 
Horace,  96,  116 
Houghton,  Stanley,  197,  210 
Housman,  Lawrence,  56 
Hugo,    Victor,    166,    171,    178,    231, 

244 

Hunt,  Leigh,  141,  170 
Hyperbolus,  27,  48 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  150,  155,  157  167-8, 
179,  188-94,  198-9,  203,  205,  231, 
244 

Idealism,  dramatic,  161,  217 

lo  (Greek  nymph),  9-10 

Iphigeneia  in  Taurica  (Euripides),  246 

Iris  (Pinero),  180,  195-6 

Ironmaster,  The  (Ohnet),  222 

Irving,  Ethel,  221 

Irving,  Sir  Henry,  257 

Irving,  H.  B.,  260 

Isseus,  62 

Isocrates,  62 

James,  Henry,  263 

Jerrold,  Douglas,  169-70 

Jew  of  Malta,  The  (Marlowe),  134 

Job,  Book  of,  8 

John  Bull's  Other  Island  (Shaw),  178 

Jones,  Henry  Arthur,  176-7 

Justice  (Galsworthy),  168,  211,  215-17 

Keats,  John,  96 
Kendal,  W.  H.  and  M.,  222 
King  Lear  (Shakespeare),  130,  214 
Kingston,  Gertrude,  56 
Kleis  (d.  of  Sappho).  93 
Knights,  The  (Aristophanes),  38,  41-2, 
127 


Knowles,  Sheridan,  166,  169-70 
Kronos,  4,  6,  10-11 

Lacedsemon  :  see  Sparta 

Lady  from  the  Sea,  The  (Ibsen),  191 

Lady  of  Lyons,  The  (Bulwer  Lytton), 

170-2 

Lamachus,  49 
Lamb,  Charles,  141-2,  145 
Last  of  the  De  Mullins,  The  (Hankin), 

202,  216 

Leucadian  Rock,  94,  97-8 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  84-7 
Little  Dream,  The  (Galsworthy),  217 
Little  Eyolf  (Ibsen),  191 
Little  Mary  (Barrie),  139 
Love's    Labour    Lost    (Shakespeare), 

130-1 
Lysistrata,    The    (Aristophanes),    52, 

54-8,  100 

Lytton,  E.  R.  Bulwer,  166,  169,  170-2, 
'178 

Macaulay,  Lord,  141,  146-7 
Macbeth  (Shakespeare),  130,  138 
McCarthy,  Lillah,  261 
Macedonian  Empire,  61-72 
McKinnell,  Norman,  209,  212 
Macready,  W.  C.,  167,  169-70 
Maeterlinck,  M.,  167,  199 
Magda  (Sudermann)  :  see  Heimat 
Major  Barbara  (Shaw),  164 
Malade  Imaginaire,  Le  (Moliere),  149 
Man  and  Superman  (Shaw),  144,  203 
Marcus  Aurelius,  109-21 
Mariage  Force,  Le  (Moliere),  150 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  125,  130,  134 
Master-Builder,  The  (Ibsen),  191-2 
Maternite  (Brieux),  221,  222,  226-7 
Measure  for  Measure  (Shakespeare), 

138 

Medea  (Euripides),  245-6 
Melian  massacre  (416  B.C.),  247 
Melodrama,  171 

Menages  d  Artistes  (Brieux),  222 
Menander,  124-5,  129,  148,  154-5 
Menelaus,  14,  247-8 
Mencechmi  (Plautus),  130 
Merchant    of    Venice    (Shakespeare), 


Meredith,  George,  17,  122,  132,  154, 

252 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  The  (Shake- 

speare), 152,  252 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  A  (Shake- 

speare), 131,  134,  258,  261 
Milestones  (Bennett),  217 
Misanthrope,  Le  (Moliere),  123,  151-60 
Moliere,  J.  B.  P.,  122-60 


268 


INDEX 


Money  (Lytton),  170,  172 

M.  de  Reboval  (Brieux),  222 

Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  (Shaw),  3, 
179 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing  (Shake- 
speare), 131,  135-7 

Murray,  Gilbert,  236 

Napoleon  Bonaparte,  20-3 

Napoleonic  Wars,  1,  5,  17 

Nationality,  definition  of,  77 

Nausicaa,  89,  97,  106 

Nemesis,  Greek  conception  of,  15 

Nesbitt,  Cathleen,  210 

New  Sin,  The  (Macdonald),  168 

Nicias,  31-53 

Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  The  (Pinero), 

180,  194 
Nous,  Greek  conception  of,  103,  250 

Oceanus,  9 

Odysseus,  97,  106,  138 

Ohnet,  Georges,  221-2 

Old   Bachelor,    The    (Congreve),    141, 

148 

Olympian  Gods,  6,  9-11,  241-2 
Oresteian  triology,  1,  7-16,  163,  238 
Orestes,  13,  238 

Othello  (Shakespeare),  26,  130,  138 
Ours  (Robertson),  172,  175 
Ovid,  92-6 

Pacifism,  43,  51,  54,  57 
Palliata  (Roman  comedy),  128 
Palmer,  John,  142 
Pan-Hellenism,  ancient,  34-8,  66-8 

,  modern,  76-9 

Pantheon,  Greek,  4,  6-12,  103,  241-2 

Paris  (Greek  hero),  3,  14,  248 

Parkins,  Sir  William,  146 

Patriotism,  principles  of,  60-72 

Pausanias,  64 

Peace,  The  (Aristophanes),  43-5 

Peisander,  57 

Pericles,  31-7,  46-8,  62,  66-7,  99-108, 

245 

Persian  Empire  (ancient),  65 
Petite  Aime,  La  (Brieux),  222 
Phsethon  :  see  Adonis 
Phaon,  92,  94,  97-8 
Pheidias,  4,  6,  100,  102 
Philemon  (dramatist),  124 
Philip  of  Macedon,  61-83 
Phocion,  61-6,  73-4,  80 
Phyrnichus,  46 

Pigeon,  The  (Galsworthy),  217 
Pindar,  13,  95 
Pinero,  Sir  A.  W.,  139,  176,  179-88, 

193-7 


Plain  Dealer,  The  (Wycherley),  141, 

144 

Plato,  62,  92,  94,  148,  244,  249-50 
Plautus,  124,  129,  130 
Polycarp,  111 
Precieuses    Ridicules,    Lea    (Moliere), 

150,  158-9 
Prince    of     Wales's     Theatre,     168, 

173 
Princess  and  the  Butterfly,  The  (Pinero), 

139 
Prisoner    of    Zenda,    The    (Anthony 

Hope),  133 

Private  Secretary,  The  (Penley),  253 
Profligate,  The  (Pinero),  179-87,  194 
Prometheus  Vinctus  (JSschylus),  1-10, 

16,  163 

Quartermaine,  Leon,  261 

Realism,  dramatic,  160-217 

Remizoff,  Alexis,  199 

Remplac antes,  Les  (Brieux),  222 

Renan,  Ernest,  220 

Rent  Day,  The  (Jerrold),  170 

Resultat  des  Courses  (Brieux),  222 

Resurrection  (Tolstoi),  163 

Return  of  the  Prodigal,  The  (Hankin), 

202,  216-17 
Rhodopis,  93 
Richelieu  (Lytton),  166 
Robe  Rouge,  La  (Brieux),  222-3 
Robertson,  Tom,  168-76 
Robins,  Elizabeth,  205 
Rogers,  Benjamin  B.,  50,  100 
Romanticism,  171,  230-1,  244 
Romeo  and  Juliet  (Shakespeare),  130, 

134,  245 

Rosmersholm  (Ibsen),  191 
Rossetti,  Christina,  97 
Rutherford  and  Son  (Sowerby),  168 

Saints  and  Sinners  (Jones),  177 

Salaminia,  The,  50 

Sappho,  89-99,  104 

Sardou,  Victorien,  176 

Scaramouche  Ermite,  156 

Schle^el,  A.  W.  von,  236 

School  (Robertson),  172,  175 

School  for  Scandal,   The   (Sheridan), 

155,  157 

Scribe,  A.  E.,  176,  190,  201 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The  (Pinero), 

179-80,  186-8,  194 
Semeur,  Le  (Formont),  203 
Shakespeare,  William,  1,  3,  59,  125, 

127,  130-9,  141,  145,  148-9,  155-6, 

164-5,  168-9,  209,  214,  257 
Shaugraun,  The  (Boucicault),  172 


INDEX 


269 


Shaw,  George  Bernard,  3,  128,  138-9, 

164,  178-9,  193-4,  197,  209,  221, 

223,  227 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  96 
Sheridan,  R.  Brinsley,  155,  157,  169, 
Showing  up   of   Blanco   Posnet,    The 

(Shaw),  164 

Sicilian  Expedition  (414  B.C.),  48-55 
Silver  Box,  The  (Galsworthy),  211,  217 
Simone  (Brieux),  222 
Society  (Robertson),  167,  175 
Socrates,  43,  58,  92,  100,  108,  127-8, 

236 

Sophocles,  4,  55,  92,  163,  238 
Sothern,  E.  A.,  175 
Sparta,  46-8,  61,  67,  101,  104-5 
Stage  Society,  206,  221 
Stambuloff,  Stefan,  75 
Still  Waters  Run  Deep  (Taylor),  172 
Stoic  philosophy,  100 
Stratford  (Browning),  170,  214 
Strife  (Galsworthy),  168,  211-13,  217 
Sudermann,  Hermann,  204 
Suzette  (Brieux),  222 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  96,  236 
Symbolism  in  drama,  190,  198 

Tartuffe  (Moliere),  124,  149-60 

Taylor,  Tom,  172 

Terence,  124,  129 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  141,  252 

Thesmophoriazusce,   The   (Aristo- 
phanes), 55,  58 

Thetis,  10 

Three     Daughters     of     M.     Dupont 
(Brieux),  3,  218-19;  222-7 

Thucydides  (historian),  31,  40-6,  62-6, 
84,  99,  107,  247 

Thucydides  (s.  of  Milesias),  101,  104 

Ticket  of  Leave  Man,  The  (Taylor),  172 

Titans,  6,  11 

Togata  (Roman  comedy),  128 

Tolstoy,  Leo,  163 

Tragedy,    Greek,    12-30,    162,    238, 
245-6 

,  idea  of,  122 

,  modern,  168,  190 

Traill,  H.  D.,  255 


Trajan,  111 

Tree,  Sir  Herbert,  220,  251-63 

Trilby  (Du  Maurier),  254 

Trojan  Women,  The  (Euripides).  246-9 

Twelfth  Night  (Shakespeare),  131,  258, 
261 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  (Shake- 
speare), 130-1 

Ulysses  :  see  Odysseus 
Uranus,  6 
Utilitarianism,  167 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  John,  140,  144,  147-8 
Venizelos,  Eleatherios,  62,  73-85 
Virgil,  21,  244 

Virginius  (Knowles),  166,  169 
Voltaire,  Arouet  de,  144,  221 

Warner,  Charles,  215 

Washington,  George,  85 

Wasps,  The  (Aristophanes),  42-3 

Waste  (Granville  Barker),  206-9 

Watson,  Henrietta,  207 

Way  of  the   World,   The  (Congreve), 

141,  146 

Wells,  H.  G.,  30 
What  Every  Woman  Knows  (Barrie), 

139 

When  We  Dead  Awaken  (Ibsen),  191-3 
White,  J.  Fisher,  212,  225 
White  Slave  Traffic,  205 
Widowers'  Houses  (Shaw),  3,  179 
Wild  Duck,  The  (Ibsen),  189-91 
Will,  Hardy's  Immanent,  5,  15,  29 
Wills,  W.  G.,  214 
Wilton,  Marie  :  see  Bancroft 
Winter's  Tale,  A  (Shakespeare),  261 
Wycherley,  William,  140-7,  152 

Xenocles,  247 
Xenophon,  92,  247 

Younger  Generation,  The  (Houghton), 
168 

Zeus,  4-16,  22-8,  51,  68,  103,  241 
Zola,  Emile,  215,  224,  231,  244 


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